To Stand Unshielded
by theatrewraith
Summary: -Sequel of Flying High, Falling Hard- When compromising surveillance goes viral during S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse, it's the last straw. Becca is no longer certain where she stands with Steve. And then, he disappears. Memory erased and at Hydra's command, Steve loses himself, and it's up to his best girl to bring him back.
1. A Bad Feeling

**TRIGGER WARNING: This story will contain subject matter that some readers may find upsetting, including violence, depression, PTSD, and suicidal thoughts.**

Becca knew Steve was there from the second she woke up. She could feel the warm pressure of his hip bone against her arm, not exactly comfortable, but comforting nonetheless. Also, she smelled coffee instead of the faint scent of laundry detergent or less pleasant odor of sweat, depending on how long it had been since she'd last washed her pillowcase.

Instead of opening her eyes to say good morning, Becca savored the moment. She didn't get to wake up next to Steve often. Ever since he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and swapped his New York apartment for one in D.C., they saw each other in person about twice a month, relying on a combination of Skype, long-distance calls, and texting the rest of the time. Which sucked at first. Well, it still sucked, especially during the stretch of two months when Steve had been so busy that she barely heard from him. But, as with most anything in life, she was getting used to it.

She learned to put her fear that Steve would get injured or killed on the backburner – usually; some days proved harder than others – and accept that he was doing an important job that made him feel useful. And just because S.H.I.E.L.D. came first didn't mean he loved her any less. When they visited one another, he was with her one-hundred percent.

Way back when they'd first started spending nights together, Becca had woken up to find Steve in the living room watching the news on low volume. She had made teasing comment about missing him. Since then, he was always there when she woke up. Sometimes reading or sketching, sometimes snuggled up against her. She considered telling him that he didn't have to come back to bed every morning, but she liked having him there. So she didn't say anything.

After lounging a while longer, Becca peeked open one eye. Steve was resting against a pillow, sketchbook propped against his knees, pencil poking out of the hand in his lap. He would usually wait to take a cue from her that she was ready for good morning. He once told her that he knew when she was about to wake up because the news would announce that it seemed like the earthquake had settled down (her snoring wasn't _that_ bad), but he wanted to wait in case another wave occurred.

However he actually knew that she was waking up, Becca didn't think he was paying enough attention this morning to notice. Steve's gaze fixed on her desk, but he had this look like he wasn't seeing it. A troubled look. No, sad.

Becca opened her other eye. "Hey, you." Steve flinched, like she had snuck up on him. "Good morning."

A struggle played out on his face in a heartbeat, and then Steve smiled. "Morning."

Although Becca didn't trust the smile for a second, she knew better than to jump on him right away. They'd had a talk about being more open with one another, but sharing the hard stuff wasn't something that came easy to either of them.

"What'cha drawing?" she asked.

"Uh." Steve glanced down at his sketchbook as Becca propped herself up on an elbow to get a better look. The page was blank. "Haven't decided yet. What do you think I should draw?"

"Hmmm…" Becca tugged her oh-so-sexy t-shirt down to expose a shoulder and fluttered her eyelashes at him. "I want you to draw me like one of your French girls."

Steve frowned, searching her face like he was hoping to find a clue there. "That's… a movie quote?"

"At least you're recognizing quotes I guess, even if you don't know where they're from. _Titanic_ , I'll add it to the list." Becca dropped back onto the mattress, stretching out her legs. Should she have him watch _Titanic_? She wasn't sure he'd enjoy it. Giving him the basics should be enough to get any pop culture references.

"That movie list must be real long by now. What's it up to? A hundred? Two?"

Becca shrugged. "I have no idea. I stopped physically keeping track 'cause it was bumming me out."

"Sorry." Steve leaned down to kiss her. "I'd say I'd make more of an effort, but seeing you getting all worked up when I don't know _Avatar_ from _Avatar_ is still more entertaining that a lot of the movies."

"You're the worst."

"I know."

Steve set his sketchbook and pencil aside and slipped back beneath the covers. With some maneuvering, they got cuddled up, his arms around her, her head resting against his chest.

Once they were settled, Becca had to check, "You do actually know the difference though, right?"

Steve chuckled, squeezing her more tightly against him. "One is that movie we watched with humans going to Pandora. The other is 'possibly the stupidest movie ever' and 'everyone says the tv show is way better.'"

"Okay, good."

This was the point where they'd usually lay there in silence for a couple of minutes, enjoying the closeness that would have to last them over the following weeks apart. Becca liked to close her eyes and let the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the quiet thump of his heart lull her to the precipice of sleep, where all thoughts blurred together into a sense of peace. But she couldn't find peace this morning because her mind raced at a million miles an hour trying to figure out how to bring up whatever had made Steve sad.

"So how are you? Last night was such a whirlwind, I didn't really get a chance to ask." Becca congratulated herself on the phrasing. Not pointed enough to be obvious, but not subtle enough for Steve to lead a conversation in the opposite direction.

"All right."

Of course, he could do the usual and deflect the question. "Really?"

"Yeah. How 'bout you?"

"Okay…" Becca decided to put on some pressure. She didn't often, only when she thought Steve had been bottling something up that was getting to him. "I know there are some things you can't tell me, but I wish you wouldn't lie." She could've been more gentle with him, but guilt had proved to be the most effective tool, a sharp blade used to open a wound in an effort to drain the infection.

Becca felt, rather than heard, Steve sigh. "I don't like lying to you, but I'm not even here three days. I don't wanna r –"

"Don't. Talking to me won't ruin anything. It makes me feel like I'm being a good girlfriend."

"Seems like it makes you feel upset."

Becca opened her mouth to argue, but after chastising him for lying, doing the same would've been hypocritical.

It wasn't that she'd burst into tears in front of him or anything. If she had, Steve would probably never share his feelings with her again on the chance of setting her off. Besides, how totally selfish would that have been to make his problems all about her? No way. He talked. She listened.

But how could she not be upset? Seeing the guilt in his face when he recalled a mission he'd come back from which had gone lethally wrong or hearing him recount a war story that gave him nightmares, that was upsetting. Seriously, anyone with half a heart would feel it begin to break when they heard Steve admit in this tired voice that he wished his mom was still around. He might have this perfect, handsome exterior, but inside Steve was _damaged_.

Now, Becca harbored no illusions about fixing him. Some of the pain ran too deep, and furthermore, some of that pain made Steve who he was. She didn't think anyone could be a superhero without learning a couple of hard lessons. But just because she couldn't wave a hand and make his problems disappear, didn't mean that she couldn't shoulder some of their weight.

Becca shifted up onto an elbow so she could meet Steve's eyes. "Sometimes it makes me upset," she agreed. "But knowing what's bugging you, that's not what keeps me up at night. It's the not knowing." She pressed a hand to his lips when he tried to talk. "You're sorry. You don't want me to worry."

Steve's eyebrows rose at that mind-reading trick, but it wasn't much of a trick. Guilt was his go-to response.

"Well, I'm gonna worry about you sometimes, and you'll make me upset sometimes. That's just how it's gonna be," Becca told him. "But if I thought I couldn't handle it, I'd have jumped ship already and swam to calmer waters." She traced her fingertips from his lips over a still-healing cut. Each bruise and wound hurt her a little, though Steve treated them like they were nothing. "Being in a relationship with you isn't always easy, but loving you is. I think that's what matters."

Steve placed his hand over hers, covering it like he could protect her from pain through physical actions, or maybe he needed to keep her close, her palm pressed soothingly against his cheek until nothing else mattered but her being there with him. Becca wasn't sure, so she said the one thing that worked no matter what he was feeling.

"Let me help you. Please."

Her request was met with silence, but the kind of silence loaded with the hundreds of emotions flickering behind Steve's eyes, too many for Becca to decipher, too many for her to know what he was thinking. Usually he was an open book. God, something had to be really wrong.

"Soon," Steve replied, much to her disappointment. "Not today. I need some time."

Becca chewed her bottom lip. She didn't like this. Waiting wasn't likely to make anything better. Yet, if she pushed too hard, she'd become that nagging, bitchy girlfriend. She had to give him time if that's what he thought he needed. Not too much time, though. He had until she saw him next, and then she would put her foot down.

"Okay, but I'll remember."

"I know. I will too." Steve grinned. "With my 'freaky-ass elephant memory.'"

"Bleh." Becca gave an exaggerated shudder. "So freaky." She scooted higher up the mattress so she could kiss him.

Although they had pretended to move on, neither of them really had. Becca could feel it in the way Steve pulled her closer, pressing her so tight to him that her breasts ached and her full bladder protested. But she didn't tell him to ease up. She let him keep her locked in his embrace because she hoped that in some tiny way, she was helping him, even if helping him in this moment meant being in pain. She could be strong for him. She had to be. They'd make it through this. Whatever this was.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hello again, readers. Just the short prologue chapter to kick off the new year. I'm very excited to get started with this story. This chapter took place shortly before The Winter Soldier, but we'll be diving right into the movie next week. So grab your flashlights. This is going to get very dark very quickly. See you soon!**


	2. Problems

Steve dropped onto his desk chair and pressed the button to turn on his laptop. He rubbed a hand across his forehead as he waited. The last couple of days had been trying. No, the last month had been trying, but these past few days even more so. He felt… displaced, like he didn't belong anywhere.

When Steve had first woken up from the ice, he had felt the same way, after the confusion began to wear off of course. He had been lost, stagnant, as though he were still encased in ice as the world rushed on around him. Then, he'd found Becca and the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. His sense of purpose renewed, he'd thrown himself into his new life. He'd figured it wouldn't be all that different from his old one; the details changed, the mechanics the same.

He had been wrong.

S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't operate like the army Steve had known. There were too many secrets kept, too much paranoia. Project Insight had reminded him uncomfortably of the policies of the very regimes he had once fought against.

Steve had thought he was building a friendship with Nat. She had been suggesting places he should take Becca for their upcoming anniversary, even during their last mission, insisting she could multi-task. But Nat had kept her true mission a secret from him, endangering the lives of the hostages aboard the Lemurian Star and the rest of their tactical team. If he couldn't trust her, he couldn't be friends with her. In a moment of desperation, he had even tried to befriend his neighbor, figuring they could talk over a cup of coffee, but she had turned him down. He was thinking of dropping by a help group run by a man he'd met while jogging. Sam seemed to understand him in a way. Maybe Sam could give him some kind of idea of what to do.

It was in times like this when he missed Bucky like hell. Steve had visited the Smithsonian just to see a glimpse of him on video. He couldn't help feeling that everything would make more sense if he still had his best friend.

When he turned on Skype, the small icon beside Becca's name was grey. Steve glanced at the clock. Three minutes early. He folded his arms and leaned back, waiting.

Becca had known something was off. Steve didn't know how, but she knew. He would have to tell her eventually, but he wished she had never asked. He could see her looking down at him, eyes dark with worry as she pleaded with him to let her help. She already hurt for him. He didn't want to hurt her further by telling her that she was part of the problem.

How could he tell her that he got up from her bed to sleep on the couch because her mattress was too soft? How could he tell her that her good-natured teasing about his still budding modern knowledge had begun to sting? How could he tell her that going out on the adventures they had once loved, now wore him out?

Breaking up with Becca wasn't going to happen. Steve had thought about it for less than a second before deciding it wouldn't solve anything. He still found glimmers of happiness with her, which had become even more precious as everything else collapsed around him. He had to smile when she attempted to tell him a dirty joke, but kept bursting into giggles until she finally gave up and told him she'd text it to him after they hung up. When making lunch took an unexpected turn, all his concerns had been forgotten as they made love against a kitchen wall. Steve held these memories close, a comforting movie reel in his head whose familiar images could lull him to sleep or give him a reason to get up in the morning.

The time they'd decided on ticked past. One minute. Ten. Fifteen. Steve felt Becca slipping away from him. Even she was caught up in her bustling life. He envied her sometimes. She had a family, friends, a job she understood. And she related to people with such ease. Give her a minute alone with a stranger, and they'd be chatting and laughing. If their positions had been reversed, Steve thought she'd get along just fine.

The icon beside Becca's name turned green, and a moment later, his laptop started ringing. Steve clicked the button to answer.

Becca appeared on his screen, sitting in the usual place on her bed. "Hi! Sorry I'm late. I was in the shower." She ran a hand through her damp hair. "Trying to look my best for my man."

Steve felt guilty for even thinking she might've forgotten about him. "You always look beautiful."

"Liar," said Becca, but her eyes lit up.

"Did your yoga class end up getting moved to a different time?" Steve guessed that might be the actual reason for her shower.

"Ugh." Becca made a face. "Not exactly. The instructors swapped days. Me and the girls tried the new instructor, but we didn't like him as much. So we're trying to do Thursdays now, but… we'll see."

"I'm sure it'll work out."

"Hopefully." Becca's lips twitched in amusement. "We did meet these two women, Kendra and Zari. They came up to us and were, like, really friendly, so we invited them to go out for drinks. And while we're there, Zari leans practically across the table and is like –" Becca leaned towards her laptop and lowered her voice to an excited whisper, eyes wide. "Aren't you dating Captain America? What's he really like?"

Steve hadn't heard a story about Becca getting recognized in quite a while, although she was more likely to have an interaction with one of his fans rather than the press. But she'd never had a problem handling the fans as she had with the press, who still made her a bit skittish.

"Did you tell her I have us wake up at dawn to _Taps_ , salute the flag hanging over my bed, and say the Pledge of Allegiance?"

"Oh yeah. And that you tuck your shield in bed at night with a quilt of eagle feathers and sing it _The Star Spangled Banner_."

"Hey, that was supposed to stay between you and me."

Becca put her hand to her mouth. "Whoops." She lowered her hand to reveal a smile. "Have you thought any more about naming your shield?"

Recently, Becca had become fixated on the idea that because Thor's hammer had a "badass" name, so should his shield. She assured him that "all great weapons have names" and pointed out that plenty of military people had named their guns. That might be true, but Steve didn't feel the need to name his shield. Sure, he was fond of it, but naming his shield would be like naming his arm.

"I told you, it doesn't need a name," Steve insisted.

Becca wrinkled her nose. "How about Roxanne?"

"What happened to The Freedom-Enforcer and The United Shield of Ass-whupping?"

"Um, I decided those names were lame, and they didn't feel very you."

"But Roxanne does?" Steve's asked, eyebrows knitting. Roxanne sounded like the name of a pin up girl.

"Okay, not Roxanne then," Becca conceded. "Do you feel like your shield is more male or female?"

"Give me a second. I'll go ask my inanimate shield what gender it identifies as."

Becca narrowed her eyes at him. "How about Alex? That's gender neutral. Or Max?"

At this point, Steve knew she wouldn't drop the subject unless he made a suggestion, so he picked the first name to come to mind. "What about Becca?"

Becca made a choking noise and banged her chest. "Sorry, I got a little sap stuck in my throat. Are you saying I remind you of something you throw away and hope comes back to you?"

Fighting a grin, Steve said, "I know it'll come back to me." He couldn't fight anymore when Becca gasped dramatically.

"Oh, that's the final straw. If you're not going to worship at this temple, then I'm shutting the doors." Becca lowered her laptop screen, the image panning down across her breast.

"All right. I'm sorry," Steve apologized.

But the image continued to move down, crossing her belly. Fear clamped down on Steve's gut. Becca was going to close her laptop. He'd really made her angry. She was going to leave him alone.

"Becca!"

The image rapidly changed directions, flashing past Becca's face. She centered the screen, looking worried. "What?"

His fear evaporated as if it had never been there, making Steve instead feel like an idiot. It was just a joke. She knew he'd been teasing. He thought up an excuse.

"Uh… you didn't tell me what happed with Zari and Kendra."

Becca stared at him. It hadn't been a very good excuse. "Well," she said slowly, "I told them a few things. You know, like you're sweet, you've got a good sense of humor, you're a bit of a drama queen. My friends were staring her down though, so she didn't ask anything else. I felt kinda bad, so I made sure to say hi the next class. I don't know. I guess we'll see what happens."

"Uh huh." Steve wanted to keep the conversation going, to get away from his outburst, but his mind was drawing a blank.

"Steve." Her tone was hesitant, her gaze weighing the options. Becca bit her bottom lip, tugging it between her teeth as she thought. "Are you… okay?"

Steve's instinct told him to say yes. The word rose up in his throat, ready to leap from his mouth. But he remembered her saying that the not knowing that kept her up. And he couldn't hide his feelings away from her forever, not when she tried so hard to look out for him. Not when she had gone out of her way to share some of her harder days after she started getting professional help for her pill addiction. He could give her an inch, just an inch.

"Not really," he admitted.

Becca nodded. She laid down on her bed and adjusted her laptop. Steve got the sense that she was settling in for as long as it took to make him feel better. Gratitude surged in his chest, and affection for his best girl, who would undoubtedly stay up all night if he needed her to.

"Tell me," she said.

Steve considered what to share with her. "I saw Peggy today."

Becca's eyebrows hitched in surprise. "How is she?"

Beautiful. Strong. Smart. Old. Sick. Broken. There were a million ways Steve could answer the question.

"She has Alzheimer's. It's – it's pretty bad." He had to clear his throat. "They think she has maybe a year. Could be more, could be less."

Steve had never visited Peggy until today because he'd been afraid to see her changed. In his head, she had remained the young officer he'd fallen in love with. He still carried a torch for her, seeing Peggy had proven that. Not much time had passed for him, not nearly as much as had passed for her. He had hoped going to visit her would give him a sense of direction. Peggy had always known what to do and was never afraid to speak her mind about it.

Instead, the visit had made him realize an ugly truth. It would have been easier if she already was dead. Going to see a gravestone, knowing someone had passed was hard, but at least you didn't see them suffer. Seeing someone in the grips of an illness and not being able to help, it had only made him feel low. He loved her, and he had to watch her suffer like he'd watched Ma suffer.

Steve made a fist and took a breath, trying to hold himself together. "I wish there was something I could do, but there's nothing, you know?"

"I know," Becca replied. "And I'm so sorry. It's really hard to see someone slipping when you remember how they used to be. Especially when you love them."

Steve twitched, startled by her response. He hadn't told her that he still had feelings for Peggy, though he meant to beg her forgiveness when he had the chance. "How did you know?"

"Because you never talk about her."

* * *

Becca wished should could reach right through the screen and hug Steve. He looked sad, and guilty. If only they'd had a chance to talk sooner.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Don't be. She was your first real love, and you never really got closure since you… got frozen."

In fact, Becca knew that Peggy was the last person Steve had talked to. She had heard a grainy copy of the audio back when she had first found out about his being Captain America. She remembered that they had been in the middle of planning a date, even though it was obvious from their voices that they both knew the date would never happen. And the audio on Steve's end had cut out mid-sentence. It had been heartbreakingly romantic, like something from a movie. She had teared up listening.

So Becca didn't blame Steve for his lingering feelings. She had been a tiny bit jealous at first, but Peggy was an old woman and posed no actual threat to their relationship. If Steve told her he needed to go have that date to make things better, she'd foot the bill herself and get him a brand new suit to boot. He wouldn't, though.

"Yeah." Steve looked away from the screen. "We did get our dance. There was a radio in her room, and I asked one of the nurses – they got a CD from the dayroom. Peggy couldn't stand for long. I had to almost carry her towards the end, but she insisted she could get through one song." He smiled, but there was so much pain behind it. "And we made it, but when she looked u-up at me…" His gaze flicked downwards and he shook his head.

Becca reached out, fingertips touching his image. It was killing her not to be able to hold him. "I can't even imagine how hard that must've been." She did actually have some sense. She'd lost a grandmother to Alzheimer's. Seeing her mind break down had been rough, but this seemed like it would be even harder to cope with.

Steve looked up again, and his eyes had taken on a glassy sheen. "She was so strong. I thought nothing could ever break her. I thought – I thought that she was someone who, if she went out, she'd go out on her own terms. Not like this."

Don't cry. Becca swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to come up with something. Some kind of comfort. "Did it seem like she was happy with her life at least?"

"Yeah. Yeah, she seemed happy. She has a good family, did a lot of great things."

"That counts for something, right?"

Steve squared his shoulders. "Yeah. She has plenty to be proud of."

"Of course she does. Obviously you attract badass women."

"Obviously."

Becca thought Steve looked better. Not a lot better, but his faint smile didn't carry the tightness of trying to dam up all his emotions. She had finally figured out how to help him. Thank god. She'd been fixating on this for almost two weeks now. Only. Wait. Steve had come directly from a mission to New York on that trip and he'd made it sound like today's visit with Peggy was a first. So the super sad look she'd been worrying over _couldn't_ be about Peggy.

Goddammit. Becca was glad to help, but she'd basically plugged up a leak with chewing gum and a one-liner only to find out there was still a hole somewhere that could sink the ship. Let's be honest, holes, plural. Steve was basically one of those ships that seemed sturdy in a picture, but then you inspected the hull and wondered how the fuck it stayed afloat. Or maybe that was a more apt metaphor for their relationship. No, they were fine, right? Right?

Becca felt like gripping her laptop and demanding that Steve tell her why he'd been so sad before. Then, she'd know it wasn't about them. Ugh. Why had Ally put the idea in her head? Becca hadn't even considered Steve would be unhappy in their relationship until she'd told her friend about what happened and Ally had asked if they were having problems.

They weren't having problems. They didn't "have problems." Okay, so they didn't communicate their feelings as often as they should, but they'd been working on it. And the long distance, disappearing for undisclosed amounts of time thing was kind of a bummer, but nothing could be done about that. She just stewed quietly about it on occasion, which totally didn't count as not communicating because all telling Steve would accomplish was making him feel bad about his job. So. There. And they'd had that one argument – but it was a tiny argument, not a fight – about whether or not it mattered that she didn't plan on going to vote for the new congressmen because she didn't like any of the candidates anyway. She hadn't even wanted to talk about it, but he made it into a thing and – Whatever. The argument was over. It didn't matter. Steve had probably forgotten all about it, and she was being stupid. Except he never forgot about anything. Surely he wouldn't think about dumping her because she had hurried to buy a ticket for the latest Wes Anderson cinematic triumph but couldn't be bothered with one dumb election.

"I'll be all right," Steve promised, clearly taking her distress as concern for him.

Right. Peggy. Alzheimer's. Focus. Becca nodded. She meant to reassure him, but blurted out, "I miss you."

Guilt immediately crossed his expression. "I miss you, too."

Becca hated that she'd needed to hear him say that, shame heating her cheeks. "I just wish I could be there for you." Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.

"That'd be nice, but you've helped enough. Honest. It made me feel better talking to you."

"You can call me whenever, you know. Whatever's bothering you, I'm here." Becca knew she should stop herself, be upfront. Anything was better than this half-ditch attempt to get Steve to spill on what had been troubling him. When had she gotten this needy? She didn't like this side of herself.

But Steve didn't read between the lines; he took her words at face value as usual, which only made her feel worse. "I know."

In an effort to make things right – kind of dumb considering Steve didn't even know she wasn't being 100% supportive – Becca offered, "Really though. It doesn't even have to be a call. It could be a text. Or I could send you something if you wanted. Do you want me to send a batch of snickerdoodles? You could bring them on your next mission. There's always room for cookies. I could make a couple of batches to share if you wanted. Is that a weird 'mom' thing to say? You don't have to share them. Pig out. Go nuts."

With an amused shake of his head, Steve assured her, "That's all right. You don't have to make 'em for me. I might not be here when they came, and it'd be a real shame to waste a single one of those snickerdoodles."

"Hmm… I could make fudge. That lasts a while."

"Don't tempt me. It'll go right to my thighs."

"I'm so sure." Becca had liked the food idea. Good food was the best cure for the blues, but she'd think up something guaranteed to reach him. "More sexts?"

Steve's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Sexts. Those – Hold on." Becca brought up Google. Yes, she could straight up remind him, but pulling out and adapting old-timey slang was way more fun.

However, Steve beat her to the punch. Lowering his voice as though there were a group of people standing hidden behind the laptop, he asked, "You mean those, er, special pictures you send sometimes?"

"Yeah, those."

Becca had thought Steve liked them. She'd been nervous the first time when he didn't respond for over five hours (she'd already been fussing over the photo for almost two hours herself), but work kept him busy at all hours of the day. And his responses had fallen on the spectrum from adorably awkward to surprisingly dirty – given time and distance, his sex talk improved. But now he seemed rather embarrassed. Had he been going along with it for her sake? Did he secretly think she was being a total slut? Ugh. She was second guessing everything.

"I can stop sexting you if it makes you uncomfortable," she murmured, rubbing her arm. "I thought – We don't see each other as much as we used to, so I thought we could give it a try. I'm not going to be upset or anything if you don't want me to send you pictures." Less effort anyway.

"No. Uh, I do. Want you. I mean, want you to keep sending them." Steve rubbed the back of his neck. If he hadn't been stumbling all over himself, Becca might not have believed him. "If _you_ want to."

"Mhmm."

"All right. Great. I just, uh, have to be careful where I'm looking at my phone."

Oh, that's why he was embarrassed. Becca smiled. "Someone ask you if that was a gun in your pocket or you were just happy to see them?"

"No. I got the first one while I was on a plane with my team heading back to base, and I guess it was obvious from the look on my face."

Becca could only imagine how well that had gone. He still got all jumpy if they were sharing nothing but a kiss and Ally came home, even in the safety of her bedroom. "So you spent the rest of the mission all hot under the collar."

"Well, until Yakovski tried to get a look."

"Which didn't happen, right?" Becca was sure Steve would never show off the pictures, but if someone swiped up the phone before it locked, they'd get a peek. Which would be icky. So she'd sort of made porn, but it was meant to be private porn. "Because I might have to go bury myself in my non-existent backyard if he did."

Steve scoffed. "Course not. We had words."

"Uh huh."

"And I might've locked him in the cargo hold. At least, I shut the door. That he couldn't get out from the inside…"

"You didn't." Becca pressed her fingers to her mouth to hold back a giggle.

Steve crossed his arms. "I didn't like how he was talking about you."

"That's my boy." Like her own personal guard dog. Play nice and Steve would be friendly. Make a wrong move, he'd put himself in the middle and growl. Keep going and he was apt to bite. Becca winked. "You're getting something extra special for that. I'm thinking very sheer and very tiny."

"I like those boots you have. The tall ones with the laces." Becca had to laugh at how eager Steve sounded. He bowed his head, abashed, but added, "They look real swell on you."

Of course he'd think so. "I'll keep them in mind."

They went on to talk about other things. Steve told her about this guy Sam he'd met while out running, who had also been in the army. Becca hoped she didn't sound too excited about him possibly making a friend. Even if he didn't need a ton of friends and packed social calendar the way she did, she thought it'd be good for him to have a few close friends for support. They went over the list Steve kept of things people mentioned to him that he didn't know, and she gave him enough info to cross off a few lines (mostly pop culture references; if given a historical reference, she could sometimes give him a sketchy idea, but mostly deferred him to the all-knowing internet). She caught him up on the latest hits of her life, including her progress training with Armand.

When her gun license had come through, Steve had taken her out to a shooting range. Becca went with him a couple of times, but quickly found out that she didn't like guns. She did feel safer having one in her purse, and practice took out some of the jitters. However, holding the cool metal in her hand reminded her too much of when she'd killed that alien.

Becca decided to keep the gun, but also take another round of self-defense classes. She had enjoyed those. Steve had nodded when she told him, and she'd thought that was that. But less than a week later, he'd called and asked if she'd like to meet with the mentor of one of his former combat instructors. Although nervous that she wasn't exactly at the level of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Becca agreed since Steve had gone through the trouble of asking.

Armand had been a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. for almost twenty-years. He had split his time between instructing – primarily in a method of fighting called Keysi – and going out into the field, until a bomb had torn off his right arm and seriously fucked up the nerves running from his spine all the way down his right side. Becca wondered if that's what had made Steve think of her. Now, Armand consulted for S.H.I.E.L.D. and oversaw two private Keysi training facilities, one in his native Spain, the other in New York.

She was pretty sure everyone must have the same kind of relationship with Armand and the other instructors, the love-hate kind. Some days she left training in tears. Other days she felt ready to kick serious ass. But when she wasn't cursing the universe and nursing bruises – so the first 24 to 48 hours after her weekly beat down – Becca loved it. And from the way Steve could barely keep his hands off her during the trip home from the one time he'd tagged along, she knew he loved it, too. And she wasn't even that good yet. Not that she planned on become a hard-core expert, but if she ever got cornered by aliens again, she intended on being able to do something about it. And stay in control.

By the time Becca had finished telling Steve about how she'd rolled around on the practice mat to avoid hits from her sparring partner until even Armand had bent double laughing – she elected not to mention she'd ended up on ground by tripping – it was almost midnight. She'd have stayed up later, but Steve insisted he needed to get to bed. Becca didn't drag her feet, even though he was definitely just saying that because she couldn't stop yawning. They said their goodnights and hung up.

Becca closed her laptop and set it aside on the bedside table before flopping back on her bed. They were okay. They had to be. When they talked, everything felt the same, and Steve's eyes still softened when she told him that she loved him. So the problem wasn't them.

Probably.

Hopefully.

But then what was? She rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face into her pillow. He'd been so hurt about Peggy, so she couldn't say anything, but that sad look was really bugging her. She hated this waiting part. It made her feel useless.

Resigned to the fact that this problem wasn't getting solving tonight, Becca got up and changed into her pjs. She left her bedroom to brush her teeth, but stopped in the hallway. Light spilled out of the kitchen doorway, but she had definitely turned the lights off. The skin along her spine crawled, cutting through the haze of tiredness. Someone had broken into her apartment. Did she retreat into her bedroom and lock the door? Or sneak around hoping to catch whoever had broken in unawares? She might be able to get the jump on them, scare them badly enough that they'd leave. Unless they had a gun. Or a knife.

A pan rattled, followed by feet padded across the floor. The fridge opened. Becca tilted her head. Why would someone break in to make food? Yeah, there were some crazy people out there and weird shit happened all over New York, but this was super strange. Okay. She was going in. But first, phone.

She backtracked into her bedroom and snatched her cell phone off the nightstand. Emergency dialer under her thumb, Becca crept towards the kitchen. She hugged the corner of the entryway and took a breath. Slowly, now, slowly. She peeked into the kitchen.

"Jesus Christ, Ally." Becca rounded the corner, sighing in relief. Her roommate stood in front of the stove, making some kind of batter in a glass bowl. "I thought you were a burglar or something. Why didn't you say hi when you got home?"

Ally poured the batter into a pan. "You were Skyping with Steve. I didn't want to interrupt." She tossed the empty bowl into the sink with a loud clank. "It's not like you get to see much of each other."

"And I don't see much of you either. At least, not at night. I thought you were staying at Danny's?" For about the past month, Ally had been practically living in her boyfriend's apartment. Becca hadn't thought she would mind, but it got lonely with no one around.

"I was. But then he let Derrick crash because he was drunk off his ass. Again." Ally tossed her head in irritation. "I know they're cousins, but Derrick's such a pig when he's drunk. Which is most of the time."

"Has Danny tried getting him to go to an AA meeting or something?" Becca joined Ally at the stove to see what she was cooking. Oooo. Crepe.

"We'll split," Ally said, to Becca's delight. Really she shouldn't be eating this late, but what the hell. She'd skip the Nutella and whipped cream and just do fruit. "And yes, he's tried AA. Didn't stick."

Becca got two bananas to cut up. "It's not for everyone. Maybe he could try a private counseling program. Or on online support group. There're a million options."

Ally gave her a rueful smile. "Not everyone can be helped Becca. Not all addicts are fighters like you."

"Bullshit," Becca countered. "Everyone will fight if you give them a good enough reason. It's just that finding a reason that'll stick is harder for some people than others."

"Is that the NA handbook talking or is Steve rubbing off on you?"

"Neither. That's a hundred-percent, bona fide Becca original."

"I'll get it framed and hung up above our door." Ally flipped the crepe. "So how _is_ Adventure Man?" She glanced at Becca, who struggled to decide on an answer. "That's not a good face."

Becca sighed and leaned against the fridge. "He went to see his old girlfriend today, emphasis on 'old.' She has Alzheimer's."

"Damn. You think that's what's been bothering him?" Ally asked. Becca shook her head. "So did you find out what was?"

"No."

Ally put her hand on her hip, looking like she was considering whether to smack Becca with her spatula. "Why not?"

"I told you, his girlfriend has Alzheimer's. I'm not gonna be like, 'Gee, that's terrible. Speaking of terrible, you want to talk about even more sad stuff because I'm pretty sure there's more sad stuff you're not telling me.' Like, that's definitely the A-plus girlfriend thing to do."

"Hm." Ally eyed the crepe. "And letting him wallow is any better?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Becca opened the cabinet and got out plates, so she'd have something more to do. "If you'd seen him, you'd understand. He gets this look. It's like – like he's got the world on his shoulders and he doesn't want to let anyone else see because he's afraid they'll try to help him hold it up and get crushed. Meanwhile, he's getting crushed himself. It's so stupid."

"So, show him you won't get crushed," Ally told her, as though Becca hadn't considered the obvious.

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

Becca glared at her. "You want to be more bitchy about this or –?"

Ally picked up the pan. "Sorry, Derrick's got me on edge." She slid the crepe onto a plate and cut it in half with her spatula. "But you've been miserable trying to figure this thing out and clearly Steve's miserable, too. Someone's gotta do something about it, but you two are being stubborn idiots trying to protect each other."

"I'm not trying to protect him. I'm –" Ally whacked the spatula against her hand. "Ow. Fine, I'm protecting him. Jeez." Becca put her smarting ring finger into her mouth for a second. "But I _do_ plan on asking him about it."

"When?"

"Next time I visit."

"Which is forever away."

"It won't be forever," Becca argued. But if Steve disappeared for months again, it was certainly going to feel that way.

Ally snorted. "Why don't you go now?"

" _Now_?"

"I don't mean now, now. But he's obviously around. You work from your laptop, so it's not like you need to take time off. Catch a train. Surprise him."

Becca pointed out, "He might be gone by the time I get down there. Or have to leave for work."

"So?" Ally shrugged. "You have the keys to his apartment. Take a mini vacay. Leave him some home-cooked food and a pair of panties. He won't mind."

Making a present of food and sex was eerily similar to promises Becca had made to Steve earlier. Maybe Ally did have some idea of what was going on.

Becca thought it over as she joined Ally at the kitchen table with their crepe halves. If she went tomorrow – or technically today – she'd have to cancel going to a Paint Night with her former running buddies, and she hated to back out on them. She had felt bad enough dropping out of the group, but she couldn't do yoga, Keysi, and marathon training or she'd go nuts. If she left the day after, that would mean canceling coffee with Malena, her sponsor from Narcotics Anonymous, but Malena would understand. Then, depending on how long she stayed, there were a variety of other plans that'd need to be either rearranged, cancelled, or missed.

But this was Steve. She had to be there for him. Even if she only caught him for an hour or five minutes. Even if he came home to her in his bed and left before she woke up. At least he'd know she had meant what she'd said. And if she packed for a week or so, that'd be a decent window. She would have a better chance of catching him. Technically a trip like this should be all about him, but she really, really wanted to know what could be so bad that he needed time before telling her. So she didn't go totally nuts.

Through a mouthful of crepe, Ally suggested, "Bring those new black panties we got at Victoria's Secret."

"They would go with the boots," Becca mumbled to herself, and pulled up train times on her phone.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Because that's what happens when you don't talk to each other. You take a train ride straight into the middle of The Winter Solider. Okay lovelies, see you next week!**


	3. We've Been Baited

As the cab pulled up to Steve's apartment, Becca searched the parking spots along the curb. She did see a motorcycle, but it was one of those small, colorful ones.

Steve had bought a new Harley after totaling his S.H.I.E.L.D-gifted motorcycle on some mission. Which she had absolutely not wanted to hear the details of even if he could have told her; all that mattered was Steve not sustaining any injuries from the crash or whatever had happened. He had showed her his prized purchase with all the enthusiasm of a frontiersman presenting the house he'd built for his bride. Not a totally unfounded enthusiasm, as he had gone and picked a model with space for her too, so they didn't have to squish onto one seat. And she did have a good time speeding around New York on a joyride, but then Ally had come home as they were returning, and the two had gone on about motorcycles until Becca was so bored that she had put on a movie and let them talk.

She would have been excited to see his motorcycle now, however, because it would mean Steve was home. Oh well. She could get settled in, see what he had in the fridge, maybe pick up some groceries. He might not be come back today, but she'd tuck her suitcase under his bed just in case. Then, he would still be surprised when she came back.

Becca tipped the cab driver and rolled her suitcase to the front door. She had two keys, one for the front door and one for his apartment. Of course, she used the wrong one first and it nearly got stuck, a sign that getting to the apartment would be a ride on the struggle bus. The elevator had an OUT OF ORDER sign, which she stared at for a good ten seconds in the vague hope that the sign would disappear. It didn't, so she had to lug her suitcase up four flights of stairs, thinking all the while of the possibly unnecessary things she'd packed which weighed down her suitcase. Not to mention, hauling a suitcase up stairs was awkward no matter how much it weighed, constantly smacking against her legs and forcing her to take corners at weird angles.

Finally, Becca reached the fifth floor landing. There were only two apartments on this floor, Steve's and his neighbor's. She knew only that his neighbor was a woman and a nurse, as Becca had never met her. She knocked on Steve's door in case he'd parked his motorcycle around the block, but when he didn't answer, she opened up the door.

Walking into Steve's apartment was like walking into a showroom. Everything set neatly in its place. Enough space to make the apartment feel extra roomy. Art hung tastefully on the wall. Throw in a few of the classics between the non-fiction on his bookshelf, and bam, display ready. The only thing throwing off the balance was the hodgepodge of different eras occupying the room. A record player resting on a cabinet, but a blu-ray player beneath the tv. A print of a Grant Wood painting on the same wall as an original Modernist piece bought from a street artist in Greenwich. And on the mantelpiece sat two pictures, a black and white of Steve's parents on their wedding day – graciously returned by the New York City Historical Society – and a glossy image of her sitting on the grass in Central Park, smiling wide with an eyebrow raised in amusement.

No doubt the confusion of styles and exacting neatness would be off putting to some people, but the space was so very Steve that Becca didn't mind in the least. Besides, give it a few days, and she's have blu-ray cases piled out of order beside the TV and dishes left in clever places. Not that she went out of her way to make a mess. In fact, she made an effort to be more tidy than usual in Steve's apartment, but the disorder just sort of happened.

Becca tossed her purse on top of her suitcase, planning on making a bee-line for the bathroom, but something caught her eye because it didn't fit. She crossed the living room and reached up, touching the bits of plaster and brick, which crumbled beneath her hand. There was a hole in the wall. A little taller than her head, but tilted at a downward angle. She turned, following the pinprick of sunlight. Like a laser pointer, the sunlight directed her to a spot on the wood floor with a faint pinkish hue. She crouched over the spot, and touched it. Not wet, but the stain had a shape like a small puddle. Holy shit. Was this blood?

Steve had been shot. The realization hit her like another bullet had come through the hole, lodging in her chest with a sharp pain and knocking the wind out of her. Her hand flattened against the floor to steady herself. She hadn't heard from him since they'd Skyped, so she'd assumed that he was busy. He couldn't be…

Heart hammering, Becca got to her feet. Steve acted like he was bullet-proof, but he wasn't. No gouge on the floor. The bullet had to be lodged in him. Where? She stepped into the path of the pinprick of light. Almost shoulder height, which would mean mid-chest on him. Or back. The room swam, and Becca realized she'd stopped breathing. She gasped in a breath, and beneath the sound of her own unsteady inhale, she heard a floorboard creak.

Becca froze. Stupid. Someone had shot Steve, and someone had cleaned up the blood. And they could still be here. Was Steve's neighbor home? This early in the day, not likely. Okay, pretend you're going to get your purse. Don't let them know you heard the creak. She walked forwards, clenching her shaking hands. Crouch down quick, the couch would be cover. Open the door, run.

"Ma'am?" The confusion in the man's voice brought her up short. Becca glanced toward the bedroom. The man looked to be in his thirties, black jeans and shirt, but clean cut. His hand rested uncertainly on his gun holster. "Ma'am, how did you get into this apartment?"

A trick? But his uncertainty seemed genuine, and he might have answers. "My boyfriend lives here. I have the keys." Becca could barely hear her own words, they came out so faint. "Do you know what happened?"

The man looked her up and down. "You're dating Captain Rogers?" This only seemed to confuse him more.

"Yes," said Becca, frustration lending strength to her voice. "Do you know what happened? Why is there blood on the floor?"

"Uh." The man glanced around, and Becca got the feeling that he'd been expecting someone else. At the very least, he definitely hadn't been expecting her. "Ma'am, I'm Agent Gardner with S.H.I.E.L.D." He flashed a badge. "I'm gonna have to ask you to wait here while I make a call."

Whether S.H.I.E.L.D. being involved should be a relief or not, Becca was getting angry at his attempts to evade her question. "Tell me what happened!" she demanded. "At least let me know if Steve's alive."

"Yes, ma'am, as far as we know," Agent Gardner conceded. Not exactly reassuring. "Now, please wait here." He pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt as he walked past her out into the hallway, leaving the front door ajar behind him. "All units stand down."

Becca sank onto the couch. Steve was probably still alive. S.H.I.E.L.D. was involved, so he had backup of a sort. "As far as we know," Agent Gardner had said. Did that mean S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't know what had happened to Steve, or was it just this particular team that had been left in the dark? She rubbed her sweaty hands on her pants. She could call Steve. Or text him. Find out what was going on.

She started to get up, but hesitated. If he was in the middle of something, her contacting him could be a distraction. That's why she usually waited for him to contact her first. Plus, if she said anything, he would know she'd been to his apartment and worrying about her might ruin his concentration. Unless he was bleeding out somewhere. Alone.

After further debate, Becca got her cell phone out of her purse. Send a message. Short. Easy to read. She brought up his number and stared at the blinking cursor until the screen went dark. She pressed the power button, tapped the screen, chewed her lip until the screen again turned black. That happened a few more times, but she didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed to be enough.

The front door swung open all the way, and Agent Gardner came back in. He no longer had a look of confusion on his face. "Ms. Stroud, I've been asked to bring you back to headquarters." He picked up her suitcase as though to show her there would be no debate.

Becca wasn't going to argue over leaving. She didn't want to stay in an unsafe apartment. However. "I can carry my suitcase."

Agent Gardner turned, suitcase in hand, and walked out. Becca had to hurry to snatch her purse before it fell off the top.

"You still haven't told me what happened," she pointed out. "I know it's all supposed to be top-secret, but can you tell me anything?"

"Director Fury was shot and killed in this apartment last night," Agent Gardner stated, easily as if he was reading an announcement from a news headline. But Becca was stunned. This was crazy. Fury had seemed so badass and invincible. Fuck. Well, at least it hadn't been Steve.

The moment she thought that, Becca felt terrible. Fury might've been harsh with her, but she'd deserved his suspicion at the time. He had tried to help Steve. As the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., he'd helped a lot of people. It was a shame that he'd been killed.

Agent Gardner continued, "We believe Captain Rogers might have information about the director's death, but he's gone missing. We're hoping you can help us find him."

"Oh." Becca tried to think how she could be of any use. "Well, I don't really know where he'd go around here, but I can call him."

"Once you're at headquarters, we'll have you make a call."

"Sure. No problem." Becca itched to call right now, but they must have a whole team assembled and phone tracing equipment and stuff. She'd do whatever they asked if it meant finding Steve.

Agent Gardner introduced her to Agent Schloss, who would be driving her back to the base. Becca pelted her with questions to keep her mind off Steve. If Agent Schloss was annoyed by the barrage, she didn't show it, but Becca did make sure to stick to easy subjects. The weather – clear skies for the foreseeable future; Becca had picked a good time to come. Hobbies – Agent Schloss made model houses from scratch (impressive). Movies – a fellow film buff meant instant camaraderie.

S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters wasn't as secret agent looking as Becca had pictured, not that any of the government's bases really were. Although, you had to cross one of two roadways over water to get there like drawbridges over a moat, which made for an interesting drive. And the first time Steve had told her the base's name, Triskelion, Becca had heard Triskeleton, which sounded less like a vegetable and was therefore way cooler. So Triskeleton it became.

Agent Schloss parked the car in a gigantic parking lot beneath the main building and directed Becca over to an elevator. She scanned her badge and the elevator doors opened. "Seventeenth floor."

"Second occupant does not have clearance," said a cool, female voice. Becca jumped, and then hope Agent Schloss didn't notice. Come on. This was like every spy movie she'd seen. She should've known there would be some crazy security A.I. "Please report to visitor check-in for badge."

Agent Schloss replied, "Request override permission, Peirce, Alexander B," and a line appeared, wiggling slowly at a universal tempo which meant they'd have to wait.

Not that she wanted to fill out paperwork or have some guy running a wand all over her body, but Becca was surprised to be able to bypass that part. She had a gun in her purse, which seemed like a serious security breach. They must be as concerned about finding Steve as she felt. And S.H.I.E.L.D. must not expect him to be dating someone who'd open fire in the middle of his workplace.

"So no retinal scanners or anything?" Becca asked. "And here I was hoping for the full Bond experience."

"Not for my level," said Agent Schloss with a laugh. "Only Levels Eight and up get the fancy toys, with certain exceptions."

"Exceptions like…?"

"Labs with secret projects, permission to enter and exit rooms with targets we're keeping in custody. Anything beyond that, I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

"That's fair."

The wiggling line on the wall turned into a circle. "Permission granted. Clearance override initiated. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Ms. Stroud."

Okay, that was a little awesome. Becca leaned on the handle of her suitcase, feeling like she'd been invited into the fold of the intelligence agency. She should come up with a code name, even though they didn't use code names in S.H.I.E.L.D., which was totally lame. When else would it be perfect to use "the Eagle has landed" other than Steve jumping into some building? Never.

As soon as Becca thought of him, coming up with a kickass code name lost its appeal. It wouldn't be as fun without him here to make dry remarks about her purposefully ridiculous names and why they'd be impractical on a real mission. He'd better be okay.

The elevator rose, passing floor after floor in flashes that made Becca's stomach do a somersault. She pulled her gaze away from the inside of the building to focus through the glass at the view of D.C., but not before noticing that they were passing other people waiting. Could all of them be going down? That seemed unlikely. Maybe this Peirce guy wanted to get to her so badly that he was bringing her straight to the top.

"Who is Agent Peirce? He must be pretty high up," Becca guessed.

Agent Schloss nodded. "He's the new director."

"Huh." Wow, finding Steve must really be top priority. Not that surprising, she supposed. A lot of people were bound to notice if Captain America went missing. Becca glanced down at her jeans and plain blouse, wondering if dropping into a bathroom to change into a nicer outfit would be an issue. No, she shouldn't waste those seconds when she could be calling Steve.

The elevator slowed to a stop, dropping them off onto a long hallway. Agent Schloss brought them to a room, notable because it lacked any glass. There had been glass everywhere else in the Triskeleton, along the floor, on the doors; all the walls had appeared to be windows. But this room had slate gray walls, a table made of some kind of reflective black material, and four matching chairs.

Becca wouldn't have thought twice about going into the room if everywhere else hadn't looked so open. But S.H.I.E.L.D. was an intelligence agency. Not everything could be out in plain sight. So despite her initial unease, she stepped into the room when Agent Schloss waved her in.

A man had been waiting beside the table, and Becca assumed this was Director Peirce, but he introduced himself at Agent McGuffey. Agent Schloss assured her that Agent McGuffey would bring her anything she needed, and that Director Pierce would be with her shortly.

"Would you mind leaving the door open?" Becca requested as Agent Schloss made to shut them in. "It's a little claustrophobic in here."

"Of course." Much to her relief, Agent Schloss leave the door open a few inches, enough for her to see a sliver of blues and greens through an outside window.

That left her and Agent McGuffey. It would have been nice to be by herself. Becca would've liked to stretch her legs after all the sitting she'd done today from the subway to the train to the cab to the drive here, but Agent McGuffey taking a seat had made her standing awkward. How many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents does it take to look after Captain America's girlfriend? One, Agent Gardner. Two, Agent Schloss. Three, Agent McGuffey. Three, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, ah-ah-ah. Joking aside, if Steve had been targeted by someone, they must be worried about the same people coming after her.

Becca sat across from Agent McGuffey and made the same effort at small talk. He was a harder nut to crack than Agent Schloss, and she got the sense that he had to make an effort to be friendly. She kept the conversation going regardless to stay occupied, asking his opinion on good restaurants in the area, but her phone going off was a relief.

"Sorry," she said, taking the phone out of her purse. Unfortunately, Becca didn't recognize the number. She glanced up at Agent McGuffey, who watched her intently. "Wrong number." She set her phone aside, although she had three texts waiting from her friends. "You said their chicken sandwich is really good?"

"Yeah. Best in D.C. Hell, probably best this side of the country," Agent McGuffey informed her. "It's got a –"

Her phone went off again. Becca checked the screen. Same number. They hadn't left a voicemail, though. She'd wait until it went to voicemail, just to be sure it wasn't someone random who'd been so insistent on getting through to whomever they thought they were calling that they'd hung up before listening to her message.

"I'm so sorry. Let me put this on silent." Becca turned the volume off, but kept an eye on her phone, waiting to see if the screen would light up.

It did.

Becca unlocked the screen, but the caller hadn't left a voicemail. They'd sent her a text. She frowned at it uncomprehendingly for several seconds until suddenly it clicked. Oh thank god. But why had… Hmm. Well, only one way to find out.

"Could you excuse me for one sec? I've got to return this call."

* * *

As Steve drove, he could feel Nat watching him, quick sideways glances while she set up the phone they'd purchased. He would have called Becca on his own phone if Nat hadn't insisted they ditch their phones to avoid being tracked. But he wouldn't have thought of calling Becca at all if Nat hadn't suggested that S.H.I.E.L.D. might use her as bait. Not too long ago, he'd have met the suggestion with reproach. He'd have argued that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't resort to that kind of tactic; they weren't a terror organization. Now, he wasn't so sure, and he could only reproach himself for being so naïve.

"Where did Captain America learn to steal a car?" Nat questioned.

Naïve he might be, at times anyway, but Steve got tired of everyone acting so surprised that he bent rules. "Nazi Germany. And we're borrowing. Take your feet off the dash."

Nat swung her feet of the dashboard. "All right, I have a question for you, which you do not have to answer. I feel like if you don't answer it though, you're kind of answering it, you know?"

Before she could go on any further, Steve stopped her. "What?"

"Was that how you kiss Becca?"

Steve's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. He intended to apologize to Becca right after making sure she was all right. He hadn't meant to kiss Nat back, and he hadn't really. But when Nat had grabbed him, pulling him down, an instant passed where he returned the pressure of her lips. The kiss meant nothing to him. He didn't have feelings for Nat. She was attractive, but he wasn't attracted to her. They used the kiss as a cover.

Although these were the facts, they sounded like excuses to Steve. You didn't go kissing other women when your girl was waiting for you back home. He had seen plenty of men doing just that during the war. He even understood why they'd done it; they needed the comfort, they might never get back to seeing the girl who waited for them. However, Steve didn't understand _how_ they could do it because he couldn't even live with himself for a day as he imagined Becca's expression crumpling, her voice getting small.

"No," he replied. "That's not how I kiss her."

Nat nodded her approval. "Good because I thought I'd have to give you some tips."

"That bad, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, it kind of sounds like that's what you're saying." Instead of baiting her, Steve knew he should be changing the subject. He wasn't even completely sure why he felt so defensive of his romantic abilities. Maybe because he'd worked hard to improve them.

"No, I didn't. I just thought you might not be getting that much practice."

Steve almost argued that he didn't need practice, except he distinctly remembered Becca making a similar comment when they'd first started dating. "I get plenty of practice. I'm 95; I'm not dead." He indicated the phone with his elbow. "That done yet?"

Nat gave him a smile at the abrupt change in topic, but she held out the phone to him. "Yeah, it's done."

"Good." Steve pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and put it in park. "You drive."

"So you'll steal a car, but being on the phone and driving isn't okay?"

"I told you." Steve opened the car door. "We're borrowing."

They switched places, Steve walking around the car while Nat jumped the console into the driver's seat. He typed in Becca's phone number as she resumed their drive.

"Keep it short," Nat reminded him. "I did what I could to buy you time, but if S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tracing her calls, they'll get through."

Intent on the phone ringing, Steve didn't answer. Eight rings, and then he got Becca's voicemail. He hung up. She could be busy. Becca inevitably had a full schedule. Even so, his nerves tightened their hold. He called a second time. No answer. He hung up again. Leaving a voicemail wasn't enough; he'd already had that argument with Nat. It might be safer for him, but he needed to hear Becca to know she was all right.

Nat glanced at him and pointed out, "She won't know it's you. Send her a text, but don't make it obvious that it's you. Don't say 'it's me.'"

Gritting his teeth, Steve deleted that very message. "Then what?" He was no good at this undercover part.

"Do you have a nickname for her or a pet name? Something like that?"

"No."

"Hmm." Nat tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. "How about someplace that's important to both of you?"

Steve thought over the places he'd gone with Becca that stuck out and quickly settled on one.

 _We still haven't tried all the shakes at Black Ice. Call me back._

Tense seconds passed as Steve stared at the phone in his hands. She had to see his message. If he'd been too late – he should have thought of her sooner.

When the phone rang, Steve immediately answered. "Hey."

" _Hi! Oh my god, I'm so glad you called. I –"_

Steve couldn't remember ever interrupting her on the phone, but he had to this time. "Becca, listen, we don't have long. I need you to get somewhere safe. Somewhere no one would think to look for you."

" _Don't worry about me. I'm safe."_ Becca didn't sound nervous, at which Steve was taken aback, but he preferred this response to complete panic. _"Where are you?"_

"I can't tell you. Are you sure you're safe? You need to find somewhere you can stay for a day or two." Steve chastised himself for not thinking of finding a safe place long ago. He kept Becca as separate from his work as he could, but she became involved simply by dating him. He should have set up somewhere she could go if he got in trouble, or aliens came down from the sky again, or hell, anything bad.

" _Oh, I think I'm in the safest place I could possibly be. I'm in the Triskeleton."_

All the breath got knocked out of Steve at once. He had been hoping against hope that S.H.I.E.L.D. would disprove his fears and leave Becca be. They had better treat her well. They'd better be keeping her blissfully unaware in the nicest room in the Triskelion. Someone must be congratulating themselves on this tactical move. The initial drop in his stomach smoldered back up in anger. They would get him to come back, but he meant to make it very clear that using Becca as bait was a mistake.

" _Hello? Are you still there?"_

"I'm here," Steve assured her in a near growl. "Tell them I'm coming for you."

" _Don't. I'm fine. Just tell me where you are so I can send help."_

"I'm not leaving you there."

Becca said nothing. The silence stretched until Steve took the phone away from his ear to check that the call hadn't dropped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nat gesturing for him to wrap up.

"Do whatever they tell you, all right? I've gotta go." Even if S.H.I.E.L.D. knew he was coming, Steve didn't want them to know exactly when. He would be getting Becca on his terms and seeing her out before he said a word to anyone.

" _Okay, maybe we can watch Mission: Impossible tonight then. You know I've been trying to get you to watch it for forever."_

Steve didn't know how to respond. Firstly, because her musing had nothing to do with their conversation, and also because they had already watched _Mission: Impossible_ together. Becca didn't have a memory nearly as good as his, but she remembered movies.

" _It's pretty good. Of course, the plot is a bit_ familiar _, but the action is awesome."_

She must be trying to tell him something. Steve considered the plot of _Mission: Impossible_ and why Becca leaned so hard on its familiarity. A man is hunted down by the intelligence agency he worked for after being framed. He almost laughed. Becca was better at this undercover stuff than he was.

"What, is it the hero gets the girl and everything is all right in the end? That sounds good to me."

Nat waved impatiently, mouthing, 'End it.'

" _Yeah, but I don't know. I prefer girl kicks ass, fights her own way out, and saves the hero. Less predictable. But we can debate over it tonight, okay? And since I'm here, we should totally go out to that place where we got that delicious chocolate pie."_

More code, but this attempt didn't make Steve feel like laughing. If Becca tried to outsmart S.H.I.E.L.D., she would only be putting herself in danger. "I'm not sure I like that idea."

" _Didn't you say you have to go? I'll see you soon. Love you."_

"Don't do anything until –" Steve heard a muffled thump, which meant Becca had hung up. He wasn't going to let her go and do something stupid. He had to call her back or text her. Something. Anything to make sure she stayed safe.

"What are you doing?" Nat asked when he hit the redial button and brought the phone back up to his ear.

"Calling her back," Steve explained. "She's in the Triskelion, and –" Nat snatched the phone out of his hand. "– Hey!" He made a grab for the phone, but she opened her window wide enough to toss it out. Through the rear window, he watched the phone bounce along the pavement, pieces flying apart.

"Peirce has her, and he thinks you're coming," said Nat calmly. "She'll be fine."

Steve insisted, "Take the next exit and turn the car around." But Nat stepped on the gas and blew past the exit. He channeled his frustration into clenching his hands into fists. "Turn the damn car around."

"No."

"Then pull over and let me out," Steve demanded, reaching for the door handle. "It doesn't take both of us to get to the coordinates on that computer stick."

Nat shook her head. "I need you. You said you had an idea of where we're going."

"I said I think those coordinates are near where I went to basic. Doesn't mean I'll be useful."

"But you could be."

All he would have to do is open the car door and roll out onto the grass. Steve figured he could hitchhike his way back to D.C. in a couple of hours at most. He lifted the handle part of the way, but hesitated. Not because he thought he'd be useful. Nat had hacked into the file without his help, and she could no doubt make sense of whatever was at those coordinates. But he didn't like the idea of abandoning her on a mission. Nat fought well, and she was smart. Still, a team of highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had been sent after them. Supposing Pierce didn't call them off and he found out where they were headed, Nat might be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

However, Steve couldn't abandon Becca either. Especially not when she had decided to make a well meaning, but in all likelihood failed attempt to slip free on his behalf. "Becca's going to try to get out on her own. There's gotta be someone in S.H.I.E.L.D. we can trust."

"Maybe," Nat conceded. "But we don't know who they are. So unless you have a new member of that barbershop quartet willing to stick their neck out for you..."

Steve had an idea of someone in the area who might be willing to stick his neck out, but that would mean potentially getting him in trouble. And Steve didn't even know how he would get into the Triskelion.

Reading his mind, Nat said, "You know someone."

"I might. But he's not S.H.I.E.L.D., and no one gets into the Triskelion unless S.H.I.E.L.D. wants them there."

"Who is it?"

"His name's Sam. You saw him last week when you picked me up. He's a good guy."

Nat stared at the road in considering silence. "I think I can get him inside. And maybe get a place for us to meet them. I'll have to call in a few favors."

Steve looked back behind them, where the broken phone had already disappeared in the distance. "If only we had a phone, huh? Maybe if you hadn't strong-armed it out the window."

"They don't make 'em like they used to." He could tell Nat was teasing him because she had that smiling tone of voice.

"Yeah, but tin cans and shoelaces don't do long distance so well."

The following exit, Nat pulled off, driving into a rural area of Maryland. Steve thought they'd have to drive around looking for a phone store, which was downright irritating since they'd already diverted their mission once to pick up a phone.

However, Nat turned into a parking lot of a half-full Dunkin' Donuts, presumably to ask for directions. He waited in the car, watching through a window in disbelief as Nat ordered an iced coffee.

Steve fumed, ready to give Nat a piece of his mind, when she knocked into a table, spilling the coffee all over the people sitting there. Her mouth dropped in an unfamiliar look of mortification. She hurriedly grabbed napkins, cleaning up the spill, but the larger woman waved her off.

When Nat returned to the car, she handed him a phone. Steve had to admire how easily she'd pulled off the theft. But also, he'd make sure the phone was returned. She started the car, shushing him when he protested her driving out of the parking lot and reminding him they were wasting time.

Sam had given Steve his number and an address in case he ever wanted to "drop by." He was sure Sam never thought he'd be calling to ask for a favor. He wasn't even sure if he had a right to ask, but for Becca he'd do it.

Unlike Becca, Sam picked up even though he didn't recognize the number. _"Hello?"_

"Sam, this is Steve Rogers."

" _Steve. It's good to hear from you."_ And Steve thought Sam did sound genuinely glad to be getting the call, but he figured Sam might change his mind in a minute _"Don't tell me. You've decided to take up ultimate fighting, and you're calling to offer me tickets."_

"Not exactly. I'm calling 'cause you offered help if I ever needed anything."

Sam paused. _"I did, but I gotta admit, I'm surprised to hear from you. What d'ya need?"_

"Before I tell you, I want you to know you don't have to do what I'm asking. You don't owe me anything."

" _Hey man, Captain America asking for my help, I consider that an honor. So shoot."_

Not feeling worthy of any kind of honor, Steve nevertheless explained, "I have something S.H.I.E.L.D. wants, only I'm not ready to give it to them yet. So they took my girl. You know the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters?"

" _Sure. Big-ass building smack in the middle of the Potomac."_

"That's where they've got her. I don't know where exactly, only that she's inside. Becca's planning on getting herself out, but I don't think she can make it on her own."

" _So you want me to bust her out?"_

Steve had a sudden image of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents converging on Sam. If nothing else, he could get in a lot of legal trouble. "Like I said, you don't have to do it. It's probably smarter if you don't."

" _That may be, but when I asked what made you happy, you told me it's her. That's a good enough reason for me."_

"Thanks. I owe you one." Steve was grateful that Sam seemed so willing to help, even after his warning. It proved what he already knew, that there were still good people in the world ready to lend a hand even if things got difficult.

" _Don't thank me yet. You got any tips on how to get inside?"_

"Yeah. I'm gonna let you talk to Agent Romanoff. She'll give you the details."

Steve handed over the phone and let Nat explain how Sam would get inside. He listened at first, but his mind drifted to Becca. He wondered if she already making her move and what strategy she'd come up with. Knowing Becca, something from the movies. But life wasn't like the movies, and he prayed she wasn't going to find that out the hard way.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Well, Steve and Becca have got themselves into a mess all right. But will Becca make it out of the Triskelion? That is the question. I'll say this, her attempt is going to involve an action sequence, which I'm looking forward to as I haven't had a chance to write one since Flying High, Falling Hard. See you next week!**


	4. Bang Bang, Kiss Kiss

It had happened again. Somehow she'd landed herself in the middle of one of those situations meant for the movies. _My Crush Is Captain America_ , romcom. _When Chitauri Attack_ , sci-fi. And now the spy thriller, _Escape From S.H.I.E.L.D._ As much as she liked watching movies, being in them was a whole different story. There were no tropes to follow, no clues you could put together to figure out the plot, and being one of the main characters didn't guarantee your safety.

Even so, analyzing her situation from a film standpoint kept Becca from freaking out, which she couldn't afford to do. Steve was on the run from S.H.I.E.L.D. for some reason. Possibly they were the ones who had shot at him; possibly it was a third party. Either way, she refused to play the helpless girlfriend who S.H.I.E.L.D. used to lure him back. She needed a plan, and she needed one _now_ before they decided to move her somewhere else. Technically it was possible that a better opportunity might come along, but she wasn't going to count on it.

First things first, she needed to get away from Agent McGuffey. She had stepped out into the hallway to take Steve's call, but Agent McGuffey must have been listening. So he would know she talked to Steve. No point in lying. Could she use what he'd heard to her advantage? That was the question.

Agent McGuffey had remained in his seat, but his posture had changed. Not drastically. But Becca noticed an unnatural stillness in the way he sat.

"You spoke with Captain Rogers," he stated.

Becca nodded. "He said to tell you he's coming back, so… I think that's a good thing. He wouldn't say where he was. I can call him back if you want, but he sounded busy." Good. No more information than Agent McGuffey would already know, and she sounded like she was trying to be helpful. "I hope he's okay."

"He didn't say anything else?"

Becca pretended to consider their conversation, while really pondering her next move. She had to make Agent McGuffey leave her alone, but how? He wouldn't leave just because she asked nicely. Ugh, it was so hard to think with him watching her.

"He wanted me to go somewhere safe," said Becca, making herself sit back down. She couldn't take forever standing in complete silence. Especially after going through the effort of being chatty before. "That's all. I wish I could be more helpful." She leaned forward imploringly. "Is there something else I can do?"

Agent McGuffey considered her, but finally he relaxed against his chair. "You'll have to ask the director."

The director looked like someone who should be sitting in a senator's seat, not at the helm of S.H.I.E.L.D. Although, Becca supposed she was biased after Director Fury, who looked like he belonged to a badass spy agency. He greeted her cordially, shaking her hand and taking the seat Agent McGuffey stood up to offer.

"I want you to understand, we're very concerned about Captain Rogers' disappearance," Director Pierce told her. "We're willing to do whatever it takes to find him."

Not super ominous or anything. "That's good to know, but actually Steve called me, and like I told Agent McGuffey, he said to tell you that he's coming back for me."

"And you're sure he's coming here?"

"Yes."

Director Pierce looked at her. His smile didn't falter. His gaze didn't turn calculating. But Becca nevertheless felt like she was being scrutinized. She made an effort not to squirm or change her expression in any way.

Finally, Director Pierce said, "All right. This is a good thing, but we'd like to take a few precautions. I've assigned a small team to trace Captain Roger's whereabouts. They'll have you call him and give us a list of any places you think he might go. Roads he likes to take, where he goes for his runs, places you've been on dates, like perhaps a restaurant he took you to where you shared something delicious."

Becca's stomach clenched. Had they tapped her phone when Steve called? She wouldn't put it past them. There must be all kinds of top-secret surveillance equipment in this building. "Of course. Whatever you need."

When Director Pierce stood, Becca instinctively did so, too. "I appreciate your compliance. You let Agent McGuffey know if you need coffee, a bathroom break, anything."

"Thanks," said Becca, groaning internally. How long was this going to take? No way could she sneak out from under the noses of a whole team of agents. "And, I'm sorry about Director Fury, but congratulations on your promotion." Buttering up the new director couldn't hurt, especially if Steve wanted to keep his job after this misunderstanding – whatever it was – cleared up.

Director Pierce tipped his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you. Nick was a great man. I hope to make S.H.I.E.L.D. even better than he ever dreamed."

"Well, uh, good luck with that. I'm sure it'll go well."

"So am I."

On that note, Director Pierce shook her hand again and left. And through the door crowded five more agents.

They had her call Steve back, but the phone didn't ring. Instead, she got an error message saying that a voicemail message hadn't been set up. They also had her try Steve's normal phone, but it went straight to voicemail. One of the agents took her phone and hooked it up to a computer, which felt like a complete invasion of privacy, but Becca didn't argue. She was afraid that if she did, the security around her would tighten. While the agent did who knew what to her phone, she wrote down a list of places Steve might be and answered questions about the list. Some of them were actually places she knew he'd gone to, while others were purposely misleading. She didn't include Bastion's Café, where she planned to meet him.

All the while Becca thought about how she was going to get out, but nothing came to her. If she didn't escape, Steve would panic when she didn't meet him and come charging in on his white horse to save her. She couldn't let that happen. Something would come to her.

When the agents filed out after what felt like forever, but was probably only an hour, Becca was left alone with Agent McGuffey. Frustrated. Mentally kicking herself. And really, really needing to use the bathroom.

Holy shit. That's it!

For the next minute, Becca dawdled so as not to seem too eager to leave. She put her phone in her suitcase in case it'd been tapped, using the excuse that the battery was almost dead and since she'd left the charger at Steve's, she didn't want the temptation of using it. Then, she asked Agent McGuffey to direct her to a bathroom. She threw her purse over her shoulder, touching her suitcase with regret. She didn't like to leave her things behind to be rifled through, especially her laptop, but she couldn't go pulling things out without arousing suspicion.

Agent McGuffey followed her to the bathroom. When she shut the door, Becca waited, listening, but he didn't leave. No lucky break for her. She used the toilet, then remained on the seat to buy herself more time. She pulled her purse onto her lap and looked inside at her gun. He wasn't expecting her to have a gun. If she stayed behind him a step or two, he wouldn't be able to disarm her. She could threaten him with it, have him drive her out.

Only one problem, there were hundreds of agents in this building alone. If even one of them spotted her, it'd be over. She wasn't arrogant enough to presume she could outthink and outmaneuver a bunch of agents. She wasn't even sure she could get away from one. They were trained for this sort of thing. Oh, and there were probably a whole bunch of cameras all over this place. Two problems.

Okay, supposing for a moment she got away from Agent McGuffey, she would still have to get out fast before someone figured out she was missing and followed her on the cameras. An elevator was too easy to stop, and the A.I. would recognize her. Stairs were safer. And then what? Walk out? She'd have to get across one of the two bridges. Or swim. Swimming away would be slower and someone was more likely to wonder why she was in the water. She had to use one of the bridges. Which meant getting back to the garage. The garage should be on the lowest level, which the stairs may or may not get to.

Find stairs, go down them, hope they lead to the garage, walk out. Becca huffed. This was a terrible plan. Actually, it wasn't much of a plan at all, but if she stayed in here much longer, Agent McGuffey would wonder what was taking so long. Which reminded her that she still needed a way to give him the slip.

Becca rifled through her purse, desperate for inspiration. Too bad she couldn't MacGyver her way out with a nailfile, Tic-Tacs, and a pen. Nothing of use in her wallet. Bottle of Advil. Hmm, if she faked serious illness, Agent McGuffey might go for help. Or he'd call for help while staying with her.

A knock on the bathroom door. "Just a minute," Becca called.

Fuck. Let's see. Sunglasses. Gun. If she beckoned him into the bathroom, she could shoot him and make a run for it. Becca shivered. No one had attempted to hurt her. She wasn't going to shoot anyone. Chapstick. Tampons. An idea popped into her head with startling clarity, as though it had been waiting around for her to discover it.

Becca flushed the toilet and washed her hands. Then, she took her cheeks in between her fingers and pinched hard. She inspected her now-pink cheeks in the mirror. Perfect. She opened the door a crack.

Agent McGuffey wore a deep frown as he looked behind her for anything amiss.

"Hey," said Becca in her most timid voice. When Agent McGuffey met her gaze, she tried to seem embarrassed. "So, um, this is really awkward but would you mind getting my suitcase? My period came earlier than I was expecting, so I need my supplies and a change of clothes."

The corner of Agent McGuffey's mouth twitched, with what emotion, Becca wasn't sure, but he didn't look happy. "If you'd like to get your suitcase, that's fine."

"Oh, but –" Becca lowered her voice. "– There's a stain. I'm sorry. I know it's awkward, but I don't want anyone to see and it's – it's the worst. See, I have this condition where my period is really bad. I've been trying new medication for it, but nothing's worked yet. My flow is super heavy, so the blood stains quick. Plus, there are these little chunks of lining that come out with the blood, and they're all sticky and –"

"All right," Agent McGuffey interrupted, his expression barely containing his disgust. "I'll get your suitcase."

Becca bit back a smile. This guy had probably seen people shot and other bloodier horrors, but talk about periods and watch him vanish. "Thank you so much." She shut the door and turned on the sink.

Step one complete. Onto step two, finding the staircase.

Becca waited for a couple of seconds, anxiously pacing back and forth. She felt like sprinting right out the door, but Agent McGuffey could still be in the hallway.

When she thought enough time had passed – and she would explode if she waited another second – Becca opened the door. She peered out, ready with another expression of appreciation if Agent McGuffey was there. But he wasn't. She shut off the sink and bolted.

In her brief glimpse through the walls of the elevator, Becca thought she remembered stairs. She headed in that direction. She felt like a million cameras were watching her, hundreds of agents running to converge on her. Someone would notice the dressed-down woman making her harried way through the building. So slow down. Act like the building is a bad neighborhood at night. Be on guard, but don't draw unnecessary attention.

Becca forced her near run into a purposeful stride. With all the glass, she spotted the staircase easily. Unfortunately, there was a door between her and it, and the door had back cube beside it that looked like a sensor for a badge that she didn't have. She also spotted another agent walking towards the door from the other direction. Were they coming for her? She could turn around. No, turning around would look suspicious, and she might lose precious seconds. Don't panic. They'd probably been trained to smell fear. She swallowed a hysterical giggle.

This was stupid. Her life wasn't in danger. If she got caught, the worst that would likely happen was being stuck back in that room. Becca pretended to search her pockets for a badge, reassuring herself over and over as the agent approached. She glanced at Becca, eyebrows furrowed. This was it. She'd been recognized. So much for her fantastical escape. She couldn't even make it off the same floor.

But the agent held the door open.

Absurdly, Becca felt like letting out a triumphant "ha!" but she curbed the impulse. Instead, she said, "thank you!" and strolled through.

She used the close encounter as encouragement. Not every agent knew who she was. In fact, plenty of them must not even know Steve had gone A.W.O.L. Way too many people had been employed by S.H.I.E.L.D. for that. Of course, she didn't know who knew what, so she still had to be careful, but she had a better chance of getting out than she'd thought.

Confidence restored, Becca hurried down the stairs, keeping her focus ahead. Even if these agents weren't in on the plot, Agent McGuffey was and would soon notice she had gone missing. "Excuse me," she said to agents she passed. "Sorry." "Excuse me, I.T. emergency." There, she'd even come up with a reason to looked harried and played into the stereotype of computer nerds to explain her clothes. Not bad.

Becca had to switch staircases – hers didn't lead all the way down – and found that this staircase ended at the lobby. Damn it. She looked around, hoping to spot another set of stairs or a helpfully labeled door. Nothing jumped out at her, except Agent McGuffey racing down the first staircase she'd used. And he wasn't alone. Two other agents flanked him. Shit, shit.

Agent McGuffey spotted her. She could tell even from across the lobby because he gestured towards her. She expected him to shout or run at her. Something. He could have her surrounded before she could blink. But he did neither. He just sauntered straight for her. Either he felt confident in her inability to escape or he didn't want everyone else to know what was going on.

Whichever was true – maybe both reasons – Becca was suddenly very pissed off. S.H.I.E.L.D. should know better than to think Steve had done anything wrong. And even if they had, how dare they bring her here in some kind of undercover bullshit mission to taunt him. Fuck that. She wasn't playing damsel in distress for them, all holed away in some tower. She had walked herself into this mess, and she was walking herself out.

Becca approached the agent closer to her. "Excuse me, could you tell me where the stairs are to get down to the garage? It's my first day, and elevators make me anxious."

"Sure. They're right over there." The agent pointed to her left, fortunately away from Agent McGuffey. Unfortunately, the pointing gave away her escape route.

Becca hurried in that direction, wondering if Agent McGuffey and Co. had picked up the pace or were continuing their leisurely stroll. Let them underestimate her. She was going to get out. A lack of car would make it difficult to outrun them. When she got down there, they would assume she was going for the exit. So if she hid, ran back up the stairs while they went for the exit, waited until they came back up the stairs, then went down again. Yeah, that could work.

Becca flew down the stairs two at a time and threw open the door. She scanned the parking lot, searching for a good hiding spot close by. A pickup bed three cars down seemed like a good option.

And she might have made it if the elevator hadn't opened and Agent Schloss stepped out.

"Ms. Stroud, I think there's been a misunderstanding," she said, walking towards Becca, who took a step back.

"I think you're right," Becca agreed. "But I'd like to leave."

"You'll be free to go as soon as Captain Rogers arrives."

Becca would've liked to believe her, but she wasn't so sure. "When Steve gets here you can give me a call." Her legs bent, preparing to run, but there was nowhere to go where Agent Schloss wouldn't catch up with her. "In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if I could call a cab."

Agent Schloss shook her head. "I'm afraid that will have to wait."

"You can't keep me here. I haven't done anything. It's illegal."

"You've aided and abetted a fugitive."

"Tch. Yeah, the media's really gonna love it when I tell them you called Captain America 'a fugitive.'"

The door Becca had come through exploded open, Agent McGuffey and the other two agents leaping through. They came up short when they saw Becca talking with Agent Schloss.

"We know that Captain Rogers is doing what he thinks is right," Agent Schloss went on, not acknowledging the new arrivals. "But he has stolen information that doesn't belong in his hands."

Becca backed away from all four of the agents, though none of them were moving towards her. She tried to think of some way to escape, but nothing was coming. "If he does, he'll have a reason. And once he's finished doing whatever he thinks needs doing, I'm sure he'll come back. Steve's a good person."

One of the agents Becca didn't know by name snorted. She glared at him and his superior smirk. The back of her legs bumped into a car. That was it; a car. Her only way out. But no one would hand her a key if she asked.

She opened the flap of her purse and saw a tension ripple across the agents like a wave.

"Please think before you make another move," Agent Schloss warned. "We don't want to hurt you."

Becca slid a hand inside of her purse, not daring to take her eyes away from the agents. The trio who had been chasing her reached for their guns. Only Agent Schloss remained still.

"Ms. Stroud, this doesn't have to go badly."

Moving slowly so that the agents wouldn't get startled by a sudden movement and decide to shoot her, Becca pulled out her gun. "I'd like not to use this, so will one of you please get into your car and drive me out of here." Not surprisingly, there wasn't an immediate volunteer. She considered pointing her gun at the asshole who'd been smirking at her, but he seemed all too eager to use the gun in his hand. She aimed instead at Agent Schloss and flicked the safety off. "Come on. Let's –"

A bang shattered the stillness of the garage, and pain blazed in Becca's arm. She almost dropped her gun, gripping it at the last second. The green of her blouse bloomed red. The bullet at grazed her forearm.

Agent McGuffey rounded not on the smirking agent, but the other one she didn't know. "You idiot. Hold your damn fire." The agent rolled her shoulders uncomfortably, her gun lowering a fraction of an inch.

Agent Schloss took a step forward. "We'll bandage that up for you if you'll follow –"

"I'm not following you anywhere!" Becca's vision blurred with tears of pain. "We're getting into your car right now or I swear to god I will shoot you."

The agent with the superior smirk scoffed. Agent McGuffey looked murderous. "I'm working with fucking idiots," he muttered.

Thing was, the agent with the superior smirk had been right to scoff because Becca wasn't sure she could pull the trigger. Like Agent Schloss had said, Becca didn't believe they really wanted to hurt her. They just wanted her as bait. Maybe if she could be sure the bullet would hit somewhere not lethal, like the leg or shoulder, she would shoot, but she didn't have a ton of confidence in her aim. Especially not when her arm was shaking. But she faked bravado because she had no other choice.

"Get in the fucking car," she snarled.

And to her relief, Agent Schloss agreed. While the other agents watched with guns still drawn, Becca marched Agent Schloss over to her car. Agent Schloss took out her keys with care, making sure not to move fast at Becca's instruction. She pulled out of the parking spot, driving towards the parking gate where she'd have to put in her id.

However, Agent Schloss stopped the car and put it in park right in from of the barrier. Becca lifted her gun higher, wincing at the pain.

Agent Schloss gave her a level look. "This still doesn't have to go badly."

With as much ferocity as she could muster, Becca insisted, "Drive."

When Agent Schloss continued to stare her down, Becca thought she'd have to nudge her with the gun or something to get her moving. She leaned towards Agent Schloss.

Big mistake. Becca knew better as soon as she made the move. Never bring a gun closer to someone who can easily disarm you.

Agent Schloss grabbed Becca's arm, pressing her fingers against the wound. Becca screamed as the pain flared. With her other hand, Agent Schloss made to push the gun aside, so she'd be out of the line of fire.

Second mistake. The gun went off, and then Becca was screaming for a different reason.

The shot had torn through Agent Schloss' neck and part of her chin. Blood and bone fragments pelted the window, and Becca felt warm droplets splatter across her face. Agent Schloss reached for her throat. She made a gurgling, gasping sound as she gazed at Becca with pleading eyes.

Becca sat there, horrified. Oh my god. Oh my god. She'd shot Agent Schloss. Oh my god. She dropped the gun, lunching forward, pressing her hands over Agent Schloss' to try and staunch the bleeding. Agent Schloss made another wet sound, blood gushing through Becca's fingers.

The back windshield shattered under gunfire making Becca jump. "Don't shoot!" she shrieked. "She needs help!" She should run. She should stay.

Agent Schloss made the decision by slumping forward. "No," Becca murmured. "No, no, no." The car horn blared, but beneath it she swore she could hear Agent Schloss take one last gurgling breath.

She had to get away from the body and the gunfire, all of it. The door flew open, and she staggered out of the car. Someone was yelling at her not to move. She stumbled on a curb and fell on her ass, shuffling backwards. Was she still murmuring to herself? She forced her mouth closed.

Car tires screeched to a halt. More S.H.I.E.L.D. agents coming to get her.

A man opened the door, leaned out. His eyes were hidden from her beneath sunglasses. "You're Becca, right?"

Becca felt herself nodding, only it didn't really feel like her body that was doing it.

"My name's Sam. Steve sent me to get you."

Sam. Steve had talked about a Sam. Becca got to her feet and lurched towards him. Another bang sounded in her ears followed by the hiss of a bullet flying past. Fear cut her stomach like a razor, spilling acid into her chest, making her queasy.

Walking became running. Sam turned the car and for a moment, she thought with panic that he would drive away, but he was just making it easier for her to get in. He threw open the door. Becca yelped as pain flared in her leg, then her side. She leapt into the car and pulled the door shut.

Sam went peeling down the bridge as bullets pinged off the car. "You all right?"

No. She was very much not all right. Becca had a hand pressed against her side and could feel blood trickling between her fingers. Everything hurt. "I killed someone."

"But are _you_ all right?"

A scream built in her throat, a scream that it didn't matter, but she informed him, "I got shot."

"Where?"

"My arm, my leg, my side."

Sam glanced at her. "Where on your side?"

"Far over. Almost at the edge I think. It – it might've just gone through fat." Becca swallowed hard as lights spotted her vision. She was going to pass out.

"Stay with me, Becca," Sam instructed. His voice was firm, but calm, which helped her focus a little. "You've gotta keep pressure on the wounds. I'm taking you to a hospital."

"No." If she went to a hospital, they'd find her. "They'll know. No hospitals."

"I can't let you bleed out."

"No hospitals!"

Steve went silent, lips pressed together, debating. "Did the bullet on your side go all the way through?"

"I don't know."

"Check."

Becca glanced down at herself. Blood spread across her shirt, and on her breast, she spotted a white chip of bone. That was a piece of Agent Schloss' jaw. She nearly threw up. The salty smell of blood filled her nose along with the sharp odor of urine. She hadn't realized until she looked that her pants were wet.

Gasping in agony, Becca leaned away from the seat, reaching behind with her injured arm to feel for an exit wound so she could keep pressure on the front. She found one.

"It went through."

Sam nodded. "That's good. What about the other two?"

"My arm's grazed. My leg… I don't know. I don't wanna look."

"You have to look or we're going to a hospital."

Tears of frustration streamed down Becca's cheeks, but she shifted her left leg and pulled up her pants. "There's too much blood. I don't…" She dabbed at the wound, biting her lip to keep back a moan. "I think it's grazed, too. Maybe a little deeper."

"Okay. You're doing great."

Sam pulled sharply over to the side of the road and yanked off his shirt. He shoved it into her free hand before punching the gas and careening back onto the road. "Tie that around your leg as tight as you can. Then use your shirt to do the same for the wound on your side, but keep your hand on it too, okay?"

Becca did what he said, wrapping first her leg, then her belly. She was panting when she finished, and more of those spots were appearing, beckoning her into the security of unconsciousness. She remembered the bottle of Advil in her purse. The pills tasted like blood, making her gag, but she swallowed.

"So, you come to D.C. a lot?" Sam asked.

"Hmm?"

"Do you come down here a lot? I'm wondering what you've seen. Maybe Steve took you around."

"Yeah. Well, not exactly. We try not to go to tourist hotspots together 'cause he gets recognized." The world outside was spinning. "Is he okay?"

"Last I heard. Keep your eyes open, Becca." Becca jerked her head up. She hadn't even realized her eyes had closed. She propped herself up in an effort to stay conscious. "Where's the last place you two went?"

"Um…"

"Becca."

Becca lifted her head, opening her eyes. "Um, we went go-karting."

"Oh yeah? Who won?"

"I did." Becca swallowed, gagged. "He didn't cut me off when he had the chance. His mistake."

Sam laughed. He had a pleasant laugh. That was a fun word. Pleasant. Rhymes with pheasant.

"Becca, you have to stay awake." Again Becca started. "Tell me more about the go-karting. Was it just go-karts or one of those places that also has mini-golf or an arcade or something?"

"I think it had an arcade… We got ice cream… I killed Agent Schloss…"

"Becca."

"Mmm?"

"What flavor ice cream?" Sam asked.

"I…" She thought, but her thoughts blurred like the world outside her window. "I don't remember. We shouldn't have gone around the track after eating, though. I felt so sick."

"That's no good."

"No. I was looking at those big tires going round and round. Hm. Figures."

"What's that?"

Becca clarified, "They didn't shoot out our tires. In movies, bad guys never do. It's very strange."

"They probably did, but this whole car's reinforced right down to the tires. Got it just for you."

"Mmm."

"Becca…" Sam repeated her name more forcefully. "Becca."

But Becca couldn't open her eyes this time. She passed out.

* * *

It had taken almost the entire drive back to D.C. in another borrowed car for Steve to begin coming to terms with the reality he now faced. Not only had Hydra survived, the organization had grown inside of S.H.I.E.L.D. for so long that it might be impossible to detangle one from the other. He had worked alongside agents he trusted, but any of them could have been hiding their true mission. He knew that not all of the agents were Hydra. Many of them were still the good people he believed them to be. But to realize that Hydra, who he believed had been rounded up and stopped after he crashed into the ice, instead had worked alongside him this whole time came as a shock. Part of him felt betrayed. The rest was angry. Though neither of them had spoken for most of the trip, Steve thought from her brooding expression that Nat felt about the same.

But at least they knew who they were fighting.

While Steve fully intended for them to do something with their anger, they first needed a safe place to regroup and come up with a plan.

The Two Leaves was a hotel in D.C. which Nat had assured him would be the right spot to meet up with Becca and Sam. She had once pulled her car in front of another to stop two young children from being hit as they ran out into the street after a balloon. In his gratitude, Mr. Otsuka, who owned the hotel, had offered her a room free of charge whenever she wanted one. Nat admitted to visiting twice, an unusually fond look on her face. The look had convinced him more than her assurance that the best place to hide was in plain sight.

Steve pulled into the hotel's parking lot, driving towards the back of the lot so their car wouldn't be visible from the street. Nat tugged her hood over her head and got out. He watched her disappear around the front of the building, turning away when a family came around the corner. He hoped that Nat would come back with news that both Sam and Becca were already inside. If not, he would skip the hideout and drive straight to the Triskelion.

When Nat strolled around the corner, she indicated the back of the hotel with a nod of her head. Steve allowed her to pass by the car and scanned the parking lot to be sure it was empty before he followed.

The back door opened with a knock, a young woman who looked around Nat's age beckoned them inside. She bowed to them. Steve bowed his head in return and saw Nat do the same. The woman led them through what must be the owner's private residence. She gestured for them to wait as she stepped into the hallway.

In a whisper, Steve asked, "Are they here?"

Nat nodded, bringing a wave of relief. As long as Becca and Sam were out of harm's way, he could focus on bringing down Hydra.

The woman returned. "You go now. Take stairs. I bring lunch in little while."

Nat inclined her head. "Thank you, Mrs. Otsuka."

"Thanks," Steve added as he slipped out the door behind Nat.

They ascended the stairs without bumping into anyone else, but had to press up against the wall as a couple walked past the door on the fourth floor. As in the parking lot, Nat stepped into the hallway first and came back for Steve when the coast was clear. She knocked on the door to Room 49.

Steve could hear the rattle of the door shifting as someone put pressure on it, peering through the peephole. A loud click indicated a bolt being turned, and Sam held the door wide.

In addition to the expected hotel furniture – two queens-sized beds, a television perched on a dresser, a desk with untouched stationary and pens – the room contained kitchen amenities and table for four. Steve barely registered the generosity of the room, noticing instead who was conspicuously absent. He had thought Sam would understand the need to stay out of sight, and yet he had allowed Becca out on her own.

Before he could ask where she went, however, Sam said, "It's all right, Becca. Come on out."

Becca stepped out from her hiding spot in the bathroom, which Steve realized was a smart place to conceal herself. Close to the exit, she could make a run for the hallway at the first sign of trouble.

His relief at seeing her and knowing precautions had been taken to ensure her safety was tempered by how tired she seemed. Dark bruising beneath bloodshot eyes indicated a sleepless night. The unfamiliar D.C. sweatshirt and mismatched pajama pants she was swimming in gave her a particularly gaunt look. His concern deepened as she walked toward him, a slight jerk in her step indicating a limp.

Steve lifted his arms, expecting her to step into them so he could hold her, but Becca took his hands. She looked him over.

"When I said I like you dirty, this isn't exactly what I meant," she teased.

"No?" Steve glanced at his sleeve, coated in a layer of dirt and debris from the explosion. "Darn. You know I can't keep up with you young folk and your slang."

A smile tugged at Becca's lips, but it barely reached her eyes. She leaned against his chest despite the grime, nuzzling into his sweatshirt. Steve grew more worried. She only nuzzled against him when she was real upset, like an animal burrowing into the comfort of its den. He kissed the top of her head.

Becca said, "I'm glad you're okay. Both of you." He felt her turn her face towards Nat. "Do I wanna know why you're both covered in dirt?"

Steve attempted to signal Nat with a shake of his head. After all, Becca got nervous real fast after hearing any details of him being in harm's way, even if he had gotten there voluntarily. She never would admit to being anxious, but her mouth got fixed in a frown, the corners of her eyes creasing in a wince. He had learned to stop giving details, which was easy enough since Becca had stopped asking.

Nat hadn't had a chance to learn the same. "Everyone we know is trying to kill us." She shrugged when he gave her a disapproving look, soothing Becca's tightening hold by rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Not everyone," Sam countered. He leaned on two of the chairs around table. "So how about I get some coffee going, and we try to figure this thing out. Unless you'd like to use the shower first. There're plenty of towels.

Nat took one of the chairs, which Steve took as a sign that she wanted to talk first. So he pulled out a chair for Becca and took one for himself.

They explained everything relevant that had happened since the Lemurian Star. Sam and Becca showed surprise at finding out that Hydra had survived and infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D, and yet, Becca wasn't as animated as Steve expected her to be. He wondered if a night of little sleep had affected her. He was concerned it was something worse.

Mrs. Otsuka knocked on the door and brought in a cart with a large bowl filled with some kind of fish and noodle soup. She pressed a cup into Becca's hands filled with a steaming green liquid. Becca wrinkled her nose, but drank it without protest.

"What was in that?" Steve questioned.

"Tea," replied Becca. Mrs. Otsuka didn't elaborate when he glanced her way, only bowed and retreated.

As they dug in, Steve asked about what had happened at the Triskelion. Becca began telling the story – from her arrival at his apartment to the grey room to her flight through the Triskelion to a standoff in the parking lot. At first, she livened up, waving her hands and gesturing with her spoon. But slowly, she grew subdued, her recollections lost their detail. When she got to the part about forcing Agent Schloss into the car, she trailed off.

Sam picked up on the story from his end, but while Steve listened, he couldn't take his gaze away from Becca. She stared down at her lap, shoulders caved like she wanted to fold up into herself and disappear. One of her hands clenched. The other, still in his, trembled.

Guessing what had happened, the bare bones at least, wasn't difficult. She had pulled the trigger on Agent Schloss and the guilt was eating at her. Steve switched hands so he could put an arm around her shoulders. Becca smiled at him, but it quickly flickered out.

Once Sam had finished with them knocking at the backdoor of the hotel, Nat got up to take a shower with the pronouncement that it'd help her think. Sam stated he was going to venture down to the vending machines for more food, ignoring Steve's protest that S.H.I.E.L.D. might have put his face in the news.

Steve was left alone with Becca, which he now realized might be the reason for Sam's exit. And he did need a chance to talk to her.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "This shouldn't have happened."

Becca shook her head. "Don't even start. None of this is your fault."

"You came to see me."

"Which was my choice."

"You got shot."

"Two of the bullets barely grazed me. The other one, well, who says love handles aren't good for something?" Becca scooped up the last of her soup, but placed the spoon back down with a sigh. "I was never in actual danger. This isn't fiction. The bad guys don't have unbelievably terrible aim. If three agents wanted me dead, I'd be dead. Sam thinks they were just trying to incapacitate me and I agree."

"You still got hurt," Steve argued. It didn't matter if her injuries had been minimal; the point was that she should have never been injured at all. Becca shrugged. Disbelieving of her nonchalance, he pressed the issue by pointing out, "And you still had to shoot someone."

Becca recoiled. "It was an accident," she whispered. She slipped from his hold, moving several feet away, back turned to him.

However, Steve refused to let her hide, not while she was in pain. He followed her across the room and gently rested his hands on her shoulders. Becca tensed, and Steve thought she'd shake him off, but slowly she relaxed against him. He wrapped his arms below her breasts, mindful not to touch where she'd been shot. She rested her arms on top of his.

They stood there with nothing but the faint sound of cars driving by the hotel and the hiss of the shower making a sound. Steve would stand here holding her as long as it took to make up for bringing her into this mess. He rested his head against hers, closing his eyes. In place of her usual scent, he could smell hotel shampoo, another reminder that she had spent the night in some place she'd never been, waiting for him, not knowing if anyone was safe. He wished he had called her the moment he'd walked out of S.H.I.E.L.D. But he hadn't been thinking of her. He had put his mission first. And he promised himself that he would never make that mistake again.

"Do you know why I wanted a gun?" Becca asked quietly. "Why I've been learning Keysi?"

Steve opened his eyes. "So you could fight back if you needed to." She had told him as much.

"Partly. But also so I wouldn't ever feel out of control again. So I'd never do what I did to that Chitauri to anyone else. But now someone else is dead and I… I'm not sure it _was_ an accident. I was so angry and scared. Fuck." Becca shifted in his arms. "I've killed two people. They might not have been good, but they were people."

Steve thought of all the people he'd killed. At least, those he could remember. Even with his exceptional memory, he didn't remember them all. In the heat of battle, he didn't have time to look at their faces. He wasn't sure he would want to know what they looked like. It would've been harder. But he had made his peace with killing long ago. He wouldn't have been much of a soldier without reassuring himself of one not-so-simple truth.

"You did what you had to."

But Becca shook her head. "That's what Sam said, but it's not really true, is it? I didn't have to bash that Chitauri's brains in until it had no head left. And I didn't have to shoot Agent Schloss." She shuddered. "You know what? Bigger fish to fry. Hydra is definitely the bigger problem."

"Becca –"

"Just…" Becca took a deep breath. "I thought I could talk about this right now, but I can't. If you're allowed to take time to deal with your problems, then so am I."

Steve frowned at the resentment in her voice. He wanted to ask, but if she needed time, he'd give her time. But he meant to keep his promise to himself.

Gently, Steve guided her shoulders so that Becca turned around and looked at him, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I'm gonna take you somewhere special for our anniversary when this is all over, all right? Because you deserve it." Becca shrugged a shoulder, her gaze darting aside like she didn't believe him, so he touched her cheek, drawing her back. "You're still one of the nicest people I've ever met. A little stubborn, but that's all right."

Becca sniffed and buried her head against his chest. "If that's not the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is," she murmured.

"I don't know what you mean," Steve joked, figuring an attempt at humor might cheer Becca up.

"Uh huh."

"I've always thought I'm a bit of a push-over."

"Tch. Okay."

"Especially when it comes to _someone_."

"I wish."

Her words stopped him, no teasing retort popping to mind. Rather, Steve asked, "Do you?"

Becca looked up at him, biting her bottom lip in thought, while Steve grew concerned that he had pushed her one too many times. "No," she said finally. "Where's the fun in being stubborn if you don't have someone to fight you every step of the way?"

Relieved, Steve mused, "Maybe if you didn't fight me on so many things, we'd find out."

"Shut up." Becca lightly smacked his arm. "You love it."

He grinned. "I do." He placed a kiss on her temple. "And I love you."

Rolling her eyes, Becca sighed, "You're such a sap."

"You love it."

"I do." Becca tugged him down, her lips brushing his. "And I love you, too."

Their kiss was interrupted by Nat knocking the bathroom door wide with her foot, dirty sweatshirt in one hand, combing her hair with the other. "Shower's all yours," she offered, as Steve took an immediate step back to a resigned huff from Becca. "Where's Sam?"

"Vending machines," Steve informed her.

"Hm." Nat cast a concerned glance at the door, but didn't offer further comment. She perched on the edge of one of the beds to comb her hair.

Steve looked to Becca. He noticed she had a smudge of dirt near her lip, but before he could tell her, Becca shoved him towards the bathroom. "Well, go on," she teased. "I'm not going with you. I told you this is the wrong kind of dirty."

The back of Steve's neck grew hot when he saw Nat's amusement. He retreated to the bathroom, where he stripped gratefully out of his dirt-stained clothes. He heard Becca laugh and grinned, until he realized she might be laughing about Nat's response to her teasing, and he felt embarrassed all over again.

Steve turned the shower on lukewarm and stepped into the spray, grimacing as the water hit bruises he'd sustained from protecting Nat from the worse of the bombs. He supposed he should be grateful that Becca and Nat were getting along, especially since…

Realization struck with the same shock as the water suddenly turning ice cold. He hadn't told Becca about kissing Nat, even after spending a good couple hours yesterday wallowing in guilt. He wasn't sure if now was the right time to tell her. She was already feeling low, and he didn't want to make her more upset. But the longer he waited, the more it would seem like he was keeping the kiss a secret.

Steve heard the door to their room open and switched off the shower, listening in case their room had been compromised. When he heard Sam speak, his tone relaxed, followed by Mrs. Otsuka, he turned the shower back on and resumed worrying.

It took only about five minutes for him to shower, although Steve took an extra minute to scrub off the caked on dirt. He was toweling off when someone knocked.

"It's me," Becca said, and Steve opened up the door enough so she could come in. Her arms were full of clothing. She nudged the toilet seat closed with her knee and piled the clothing on top. "Mrs. Otsuka brought a bunch of stuff from the lost and found. I'm not completely sure any of this will fit, but she said she'll also run your dirty clothes through the wash so it'll be temporary."

Now was his chance. Steve braced for the worst, praying it wouldn't happen. "There's something I have to tell you. I kissed Nat."

Becca leaned against the sink and surveyed him. She wasn't crying or yelling. She didn't even look surprised. Steve wasn't sure if this was good or bad.

"I know," said Becca at last. "She told me. She said it was her idea. That it kept you two from getting caught. She also said you didn't kiss her back."

Although the lie would save him some trouble, Steve admitted, "I did. Only for a second, but that's a second too long. I'm sorry." He clenched his fists in shame. His instinct was to look away, but he made himself hold Becca's gaze. She deserved that much from him.

So Steve watched her breath catch, saw pain lance through her eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling so low. If Becca broke up with him right here and now, he wouldn't have blamed her at all. He deserved it.

"Well…" Becca straightened up. "I'm not happy, but you were honest with me and I know the kiss wouldn't have happened under any other circumstances so… I forgive you." Overwhelmed with relief, Steve reached out to hold her, but Becca held up a hand. "Not right now, okay? I need some space."

"Sure." Steve quickly dropped his arm. "Whatever you need."

"Thanks." Becca bent to pick up his dirty clothes, and he helped her, making a conscious effort to touch her as little as possible. She reached for the bathroom door and hesitated. "If you wanted to make it up to me, wearing the red shirt might do it."

As she shut the door behind her, Steve rifled through the clothing and pulled out a red t-shirt. It would fit, but he would never have chosen the shirt himself. Still, if Becca asked him to wear it, he was going to wear it. He changed, finding a navy blue long sleeved shirt to detract some attention from what was beneath.

Steve glanced down at the giant cartoon eagle with massive muscles emblazoned on the shirt above the words "'Merica! F*ck Yeah!" He figured someone must have left this behind on purpose.

The minute he returned to the main room, Steve knew the long sleeved shirt had been pointless. Nat lifted her eyebrows. Sam chuckled, "Nice." But Becca's small smile was worth it.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So much packed into this chapter. I have to say, writing Becca's escape sequence was a fun turn of events since I haven't had a chance to write too many action sequences. Although that will definitely change in this story. Oh Becca. She is really not in a good place right now. And Steve isn't in the best place either, though it's only going to get worse for the both of them. Okay, next week everyone!**


	5. The Night Is Always Darker

Becca scrutinized the notepad in her hand. She couldn't draw, so the Two Leaves' logo looked like crap, but she was fairly pleased with the layout of the ad overall. The design went in the good pile. Not that anyone could really call the bad pile a pile per say, as those crumpled up attempts littered the mattress. She set aside the notepad and rifled through the self-approved pages, which contained the layouts for online advertisements, catchy slogans, and potential marketing strategies.

Whether or not the owner of the Two Leaves needed a consult on his advertising, Becca had no idea. The parking lot had been half full from what she remembered as Sam assisted her stumbling to the back door of the Otsukas' private residence. She had heard plenty of movement on her floor. But she had to do something to pay back the Otsukas for taking them in. Mr. Otsuka had risked his business by hiding them away from S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra. Mrs. Otsuka had diligently brought food and a pain-reducing green tea, as well as gathering medical supplies so Sam could patch up her gunshot wounds.

Also, she was going to go insane if she didn't have something to keep her occupied.

She had wanted to help Steve, Nat, and Sam, but it became quickly apparent that she didn't fit anywhere into their plan for taking down Hydra. Steve told her that the best thing she could do was stay safe. Which was super infuriating, until she remembered that all she had done to "help" so far was get lured into the Triskeleton, prompting Steve to involve Sam in this mess, and shoot Agent Schloss.

After everyone else had left, Becca flipped through the tv channels, paced around, shoved her face full of the snacks Sam had left behind, attempted some yoga – attempt being the key word as her wounds rallied in protest, forcing her to give up in fear of tearing one of them open – flipped through the channels again, and tried to nap.

The nap had been a terrible idea. Memories crept up on her; bullets whizzing past, her finger tightening on the trigger, Agent Schloss talking about the model houses she enjoyed building, the Chitauri's bashed in head, blood on her hands, blood spraying from Agent Schloss' neck. She had sat up feeling sick and wiping tears from her cheeks.

It didn't matter what Sam had said when he stayed up with her all night to offer support. It didn't matter what Steve had said about there being no choice. Either she had accidently pulled the trigger, an involuntary tightening as Agent Schloss dug into her arm wound, or she had pulled the trigger out of rage and fear. Becca didn't know which possibility was the truth, and neither did she know which was worse.

Rather than drive herself nuts over the possibilities, she washed off her face and picked up the complimentary notepad. She wasn't used to working without her computer, but holding a pen and designing from scratch had an oddly comforting appeal.

" _Breaking News! Captain America in custody?"_

Becca looked up so fast that her neck cracked. The rerun of _Family Feud_ she had put on for background noise had been replaced with news footage. The angle was from high up – she was guessing a helicopter from the way the image moved – but no one could mistake the shield in Steve's hand. Natasha's red hair was another dead giveaway, and that must be Sam on his right. They were surrounded by a team of people in ominous black gear holding automatic rifles at their sides. The team directed Steve, Natasha, and Sam towards what looked like an armored car, one of many.

She scrambled for the remote, tossing aside crumpled up pieces of paper and making even more of a mess. When she found the remote half tucked under a pillow, she turned up the volume.

"… _shooting. Witness reports have ranged from a single gunman to several. We can see a bus has been overturned, but injuries are as of yet unknown. There is speculation that the unit on scene belongs to S.H.I.E.L.D. as they have made a public statement calling Captain America a 'fugitive from justice,' although the identity of this unit remains unconfirmed at this time."_

What? Since when had Steve been branded a fugitive? She had completely missed that announcement. Becca wrinkled her nose. Surely no one would believe that Captain America was wanted by the government for wrongdoings. Part of his image was being the world's most trustworthy superhero. Even the news anchor had sounded skeptical.

" _However, there is some question as to why S.H.I.E.L.D. would do this."_

The live feed changed to a previously recorded clip with another news station's logo in the corner. The clip showed the team pointing their guns at Steve. One of the figures reached out, pushing down another's gun, his head shifting slightly towards the sky as though to warn that they were being watched. Becca felt the food she'd eaten churning in her stomach.

The live feed resumed with Steve getting to the back of one of the armored cars.

" _Witnesses have reported that Captain America, along with Black Widow and an unidentified third party, were fighting the gunmen and telling bystanders to go for cover. One witness said quote –,"_ a Facebook status popped up on the screen, " _I didn't know what was happening. That Widow woman ran past screaming for us to get out of the way, but I couldn't move. I saw Captain America fighting some dude with a metal glove. Next thing I know, these guys come out of nowhere screaming for Captain America to drop his shield. It was crazy."_

The status disappeared, the screen splitting between live feed and a news anchor behind his desk. _"In a further bizarre twist, we have not received any more witness updates in the past few minutes, and there are reports that concerned family members and friends have been unable to reach loved ones who may be in the area. This has led to speculation…"_

Cutting off witnesses. Leading Steve away in an armored car. This had to be Hydra. Becca clutched the remote in shaking hands. They were going to shoot him. She was sure of it. If helicopters hadn't arrived, Steve, Natasha, and Sam would all be dead. She had to do something.

Call the cops? And tell them what, that Hydra was back and they were going to shoot Captain America? She would sound crazy. Call the media? Same problem. Call Tony? Surely he could rescue his fellow Avengers plus one. Except that she didn't know his number and her chances of getting through to him by calling the Stark Industries customer service line were slim to non-existent.

Fuck.

Well, she sure has hell wasn't going to sit here doing nothing.

Becca picked up the phone and punched in the outgoing code before dialing 911. Officers must have already been dispatched to the scene. If she could convince the dispatcher of the situation, then the dispatcher could give the officers a heads up.

" _911 dispatch. Where is your emergency?"_

"Yes hi. I have important information about the incident on the news with Captain America," said Becca, talking so fast that all her words ran together into a barely intelligible mush. "The people who took him are going to kill him. And probably Natasha and Sam, too."

" _You'll need to slow down, ma'am. You said you know something about what's happening with Captain America and…?"_

"And Natasha and Sam." Realizing that she hadn't slowed down, Becca inhaled through her nose and elaborated, "Black Widow and Sam Wilson. Sam's maybe a couple inches shorter than Steve, dark skin, really short, dark hair."

" _Okay."_ Becca could hear the dispatcher typing. _"And you said someone was going to try and kill them?"_

"Yes, the people in black clothes who were surrounding them. So could you please tell the police you have en route to follow the armored car they're in as fast as they can."

" _And what is your name, ma'am?"_

"Becca Stroud."

" _And how do you know that these people want to kill Captain America?"_

"Because Steve told me," Becca snapped, wishing this dispatcher would hurry up and contact the police. "I'm dating Captain America. You can look it up after. I will give you my birthday, my social security number, whatever you need to prove it's me, just please, please tell the police that they need to hurry and get to him. Please. And tell them these people are very dangerous."

The dispatcher didn't respond right away, and Becca hoped that meant he was talking to the police. _"Do you know who these 'people' are?"_

Rather than use the crackpot-sounding truth, Becca said, "No. Steve didn't tell me, but I know they're well organized and highly trained. They've been after him for awhile. They might tell you they're S.H.E.I.L.D., but they're not. Did you tell the police?"

Another pause. "I've told them. They're already on their way, and they're going as fast as they can."

"Thank you so, so much." At least Steve and the others had a better chance. "Do you need anything else? Anyway I can help?"

" _Could you verify your birth date for me?"_

"September 18th 1986."

" _Thank you."_ The dispatcher typed in the date, presumably to check that it was really her. After a couple of seconds he asked, _"Is there a phone number you can be reached at?"_

"Yes, it's –" Becca realized she'd left her cell phone in the Triskeleton. "Actually, I'm at a hotel. It's called the Two Leaves. I'm in Room, um, hold on." She sprinted to the door, the gash on her left leg throbbing indignantly. "Room Forty-Nine."

After more typing, the dispatcher said, _"Okay, ma'am, the police are nearly at the scene and they will do their best to locate Captain America, Black Widow, and…"_ Becca could imagine the dispatcher having to double-check the information. _"Sam. Is there anything further I can help you with?"_

"No. Thanks again. Bye."

The dispatcher echoed her goodbye as Becca hung up. She cleared all of the papers from the bed to the nightstand – knocking a few onto the floor in the process as she kept glancing back at the tv screen – then propped herself up against the headboard.

The police had to find Steve in time. Or maybe he would figure a way out. He had Natasha and Sam with him. Three against… lots more with guns, admittedly, but Steve and Natasha were superheroes and Sam had been in the army. They were smart, resourceful. And maybe the higher ups in Hydra would decide to talk to them first and gloat about how they managed to kidnap Captain America on national television. Bad guys loved to monologue, right? That might give the trio a chance to escape.

Oh, who was she kidding? She had made a comment to Steve earlier about how these weren't like the bad guys in movies.

Becca crossed her arms, hugging her chest. She should never have gotten upset with Steve about kissing Natasha. He had only kissed her because of the mission, and he obviously felt super guilty. It wasn't like he had gone behind her back to cheat on her. Steve would never cheat on her in a million years. On any other day she would have told him to stop being such a drama queen. But she had been so tired and she'd had a rough couple of days and she had been worrying for the past few weeks that there might be some problem in their relationship, and his confession had been the final straw. So when he had said his goodbyes and placed a hesitant kiss on her cheek, she hadn't pulled him back for a real kiss.

She was so stupid. Becca blinked at the tears clouding the corners of her vision. She had told him to stay safe, but that didn't seem anywhere close to enough. She should have kissed him when she had the chance and told him that everything would be okay, that she loved him and she knew he would kick Hydra's ass. Now he could die thinking she hadn't completely forgiven him. He could die thinking he failed to stop Hydra and he failed in being a good boyfriend. He already carried so much pain and she had only added more.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the brigade of Hydra cars speeding along the road. She saw them split into two groups, the helicopter hovering uncertainly for a moment before taking the left route. She saw the cars go into a tunnel. They didn't come out. She waited, every second that passed hoping for a sign that Steve, Natasha, and Sam were still alive. The tears slowed to a stop. The news continued to rehash what little they knew. She waited. Hours went by. Witnesses were being interviewed; the details they gave were sketchy at best. She tore herself away from the tv long enough to use the bathroom and get a cup of water.

And promptly spilled some of the water on her sleeve when someone knocked on the door.

Becca set down the cup and rushed to see who it was. She peered through the peephole at a man she didn't recognize.

Through the door, the man called, "Ms. Stroud, it's Mr. Otsuka."

He must have heard something! But he looked nervous. Relieved, terrified, Becca opened the door. "Did you –"

Two men fell in behind Mr. Otsuka. One had the gun in his hand pointed at the hotel owner.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Otsuka apologized. "They said they hurt my wife, my children."

Becca looked between the Hydra agents. She would have to go with them. No way was she going to let anyone in the Otsuka family get hurt because of her. Besides, if Hydra had gone through the trouble of tracking her down, Steve was still alive.

She held up her hands. "I'll come with you. Just let me get my shoes."

One of the agents followed her into the hotel room. He patted her down before allowing her to slip on her flats. Hopefully her calling 911 had helped Steve escape because otherwise fat lot of good she'd done him so far. She had unwittingly walked into a Hydra-controlled S.H.I.E.L.D. to be used as bait, and the next evening she was headed back for the same purpose. Her escape had been useless. Agent Schloss' death had been meaningless. Unless Steve haven't escaped. Unless Hydra planned to torture him and had decided that physical torture wouldn't be enough. She shuddered.

A bang sounded outside the room. Someone had fired a gun. Becca rushed to see if the other Hydra agent had shot at Mr. Otsuka, but the agent watching her insisted she stay put as he yanked out his gun. An unfamiliar voice called for Mr. Otsuka to run. Becca held her breath as the Hydra agent cursed, but he didn't fire at Mr. Otsuka. She peered into the short hallway where the agent was pressed up against the door, holding it open. The body of the other agent was by his feet, eyes open and glazed.

Steve must have sent someone to get her. The police? Some trusted S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? It didn't matter. She had to assist whoever it was in getting her out. Maybe she could throw something at the Hydra agent and startle him. Or tackle him out into the hallway.

The Hydra agent didn't give her time to decide. He lunged forward and grabbed her, pulling her against him. The hard edges of a gun jammed into Becca's neck. Slowly, they inched out into the hallway with her a shield.

"Come out where I can see you or I'll shoot her," the Hydra agent demanded. No one appeared. He thrust his gun harder into her neck, making Becca hiss in pain. "My orders were to bring her back alive, not unharmed."

After a moment, a man rounded the corner, gun leveled towards them. His face was as unfamiliar as his voice.

"Who sent you?" When the man didn't answer, the Hydra agent fired a warning shot. Becca felt the heat of it on the outside of her foot and her teeth started to chatter. "Who sent you?"

"Director Fury," the man answered.

Becca's eyes widened in surprise. Woah, wait. Fury was having her followed? She wondered how long that had been going on without her noticing. And why?

With a snort, the Hydra agent said, "Still following the last wishes of a dead man, that's sweet."

The man's expression didn't change. "Drop your –" The right side of his head exploded.

Becca let out a shriek. Even the agent started. But when another man sauntered around the corner, and the agent relaxed.

The new arrival nudged her would-be rescuer's body with his foot, and announced, "There was another one in the lobby."

"You took care of it?" the Hydra agent asked, grabbing Becca's arm and marching her down the hallway. In one of the rooms they passed, she thought she heard sobbing. The rest were eerily silent.

"Yeah. Swept the stairs, too. Caught the owner on his way down. He won't be talking to no one."

Not Mr. Otsuka, too. Her stomach dropped down to the floor. The Otsukas had been so kind to her. They didn't have to take in a bunch of fugitives or bring them food and clothes and medical supplies. And this was how they had been repaid. She should have left the moment Steve had. She should never have come to D.C. at all. This whole trip had been nothing but a disaster.

The Hydra agents took her to an SUV in the parking lot where a third agent was waiting. He sat with Becca in the back seat, a closed laptop resting on his knees.

"I blew all the camera feeds like you said. And I erased the footage from the past two days."

"Then you did your job," snapped the Hydra agent in the driver's seat, the one who had used her as a shield.

The Hydra agent beside Becca leaned back like a dog who had expected a treat but had gotten smacked instead. His frown flipped to a smile when he looked at Becca. "Hi. I'm Micah." She realized with horror that she was shaking his hand and ripped it away. Nonplussed, Micah continued, "This is my first time out in the field. I always wanted to be a field agent, but I'm so good with computers that I usually get stuck back at base."

The Hydra agent in the passenger's seat muttered, "Yeah, that's why."

"So I was pleased as punch that my first mission was tracking down Captain Roger's girlfriend. 'Course you made it real easy with that 911 call." He smiled conspiratorially, like she must have slipped up on purpose. "You know, I saw Captain Rogers once. I passed him in a hallway. I waved at him, but he was talking to someone else and I don't think he noticed me."

"Micah," growled the Hydra agent in the driver's seat. "Shut. Up."

Micah bowed his head, cowed by the hatred in his coworker's voice. Becca might have felt bad for him if he hadn't aided in the murder of three people and her kidnapping. But it never hurt to be nice, especially when she was in the middle of a bad situation.

Forcing her lips into a smile, Becca leaded over and whispered, "I'm sure he would've waved back if he wasn't so busy."

Micah looked pleased, but the Hydra agent in the driver's seat glared suspiciously at them in the rearview mirror, so she didn't say anything else.

Becca expected that they would be returning to the Triskeleton, but they pulled into the parking lot of a small building with a sign for Octopus Inc. Even more confusingly, the inside looked like a bank. One of the agents approached a teller.

"I'd like to make a deposit."

"How much?" the teller asked.

"One dollar and thirty-five cents. Cash."

The teller reached behind the desk and nodded to a door labeled "Employees Only."

The lower floor was much bigger than the bank façade indicated. There was a large hallway stretching out in both directions. People left one room, entered another. Some walked in pairs, others alone. Above the hushed voices echoed a man's muffled screams. Someone leaned against a rounded door, and the screams suddenly cut out. Becca clenched her jaw to silence her chattering teeth.

She was led into a room with bare walls, a chair, and camera set on a tripod. The Hydra agent who had used her as a shield shoved her into the chair and strapped her into the restrains for her wrists and ankles. In the doorway Micah waved at her. Becca wriggled her fingers in a goodbye wave before the other agent kicked the door shut.

They stood on either side of the door, waiting for something or someone. Becca was too afraid to ask questions. She'd rather not know what was in store for her. Only thing she was sure of, it wouldn't be anything good.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Director Pierce. He sighed as he looked her over, as though this was an inconvenience for both of them that he would've liked to avoid.

"I'm sorry to have you brought in like this, Ms. Stroud, but if you had stayed put the first time, there wouldn't have been a need for any unpleasantness."

Becca's gut roiled with nerves, but she managed, "They got away then?"

Director Pierce nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. I'd have liked this to be clean, but now things are going to have to get messy. But I don't think they'll have to stay that way long before Captain Rogers comes for you."

"He won't. He'll stop Hydra first because he knows that's the only way I'll be safe."

"Oh, I think we both know that's not true. Especially when we give him a good incentive." He threw her a considering look. "Actually, I suppose I should be thanking you. We can tell the press that Captain Rogers got mixed up with a terrorist organization, and that will explain why we're looking for America's favorite superhero."

Outraged at the entire situation from Peirce's phony, condescending smile to her being used as bait, Becca could think of nothing to say but a snarling, "Fuck you."

"And here I'd thought Captain Rogers would have good taste." Director Pierce nodded to the Hydra agents. "You know what to do."

As he left the room, one of the Hydra agents approached her. His fist slammed into her cheek. White spots splintered her vision. Becca barely had time to blink them away before the back of his hand jerked her head in the opposite direction. He hit her until she could feel blood streaming from her nose and her cheeks throbbed. She winced as blood dripped into her eye.

One of the Hydra agents fiddled with the camera, and a green light blinked on. The other agents stood behind her. Becca stared at the camera, trying to look defiant instead of in pain.

"Captain America." The Hydra agent sounded strange, like he was holding some kind of voice converter up to this mouth. "You defied our wishes and ran. Now Becca will pay the price." A quiet snick bit into the air. Becca glanced to her right, saw the switchblade in the agent's hand, and began to tremble. Be brave. Everyone will be watching, your family, your friends, Steve. Stay strong. He'll come for you.

But as the blade sliced into her chin, following her jaw almost up to her ear, Becca couldn't contain a whimper.

"For every hour that goes by unanswered, we will cut her deeper, lower until…" The tip of the knife pricked her jugular. Becca stilled, too scared to attempt leaning away or any other movement. "So Captain, will you be the hero and save the girl, or will you watch her bleed?"

Silence stretched, penetrated only by her ragged breathing. Then, the camera light went dark and the pressure of the blade vanished.

Becca sighed in relief. They were done, at least until the next hour. She would do better next time. She wouldn't let out a peep. She couldn't believe she'd whimpered like a huge baby over a shallow cut. For fuck's sake, she'd been _shot_ yesterday, so this should be a piece of cake. If she held strong, even for a couple of hours, that would definitely give Steve, Natasha, and Sam time to come up with a plan. They would probably be able to rescue her and dismantle Hydra in one fell swoop.

At the one hour mark, they made another video. True to her word, Becca didn't make a sound, although her eyes watered when the blade cut into her throat. She wasn't worried that no one had arrived to rescue her. It would take at least an hour to come up with a viable plan and set it into motion.

At the two hour mark, uncertainty started to seep into her resolve. What was taking Steve so long?

At the three hour mark, Becca was truly worried. Had he been injured? Had he not seen the videos yet? She gasped when the knife pierced deeper into her throat.

At the four hour mark, worry mingled with resentment. Suppose Steve really _had_ decided that taking down Hydra was more important than rescuing her? She had been convinced that his job coming first didn't mean that he loved her any less. But it kind of felt like he did.

The next stretch felt longer than an hour. Maybe it was, or maybe it just seemed that way. Becca asked to go to the bathroom. She almost changed her mind when one of the Hydra agents returned with a bucket, but he told her either she used it now or not at all. So she squatted in a corner, humiliated, while the two agents turned their backs. She had to prop herself against the wall, dizzy from lack of sleep and blood loss, but she refused to ask for help. Her request for water was denied. She was roughed up again to the point that one of her teeth cracked, and they added another cut to the growing collection on her throat. She didn't bother holding back tears.

At the sixth hour mark, Becca broke. She pleaded to see Micah. They told her he had been "removed." She tried to bribe them with money, sex, whatever they wanted. Their reply was a seventh cut.

Becca fell asleep, or passed out. She woke up when a Hydra agent yanked her hair and stared groggily at the camera wondering if she was trapped in a nightmare. This happened again and then again. When it happened for a fourth time, she could barely keep her eyes open, conscious only of a sharp pain, warmth leaking down her neck, and the words "last chance." And that she was very, very cold.

Pain flared in her neck, and Becca opened her eyes to slits. Running feet. Shouting. Bangs. Gunfire. Her field of vision was eclipsed by the face of a Hydra agent. The first one she had seen in the hotel. The one who had held her to him like a shield. He had his fingers tangled in her hair, her head wrenched to the side. His eyes smoldered with hatred.

"This is for Annika Schloss," he hissed, and he rammed his blade into her throat.

Becca screamed, blood flying from her lips. Oh god, it hurt. The restraints tightened as her arms lifted, instinctively moving to pull the switchblade from her throat.

The door flew upon. Gunfire roared through the room. The Hydra agents went down, so did someone else.

"She's in here!" "Over here!" People in her face. People undoing the restraints. She hurt. "Ms. Stroud, it's gonna be okay." "There's something in her throat." "… get it out…" "… ambulance…" "Stay, still Ms. Stroud." "… still…" She couldn't stay still. They were moving the blade. It hurt so badly. "Ms. Stroud." "…Ms. Stroud…" "Becca."

Becca's gaze flicked towards the voice. She knew this woman.

"Becca, you have to hold still, all right?" Natasha instructed.

Becca tried. She moaned as the switchblade was pulled free and pressure applied. Two EMTs lifted her onto a stretcher, but she didn't want to be taken away by strangers. Terrified she reached for Natasha. "Don't…" she gurgled, "leave… me…"

"Please don't talk, Ms. Stroud," said an EMT with gentle authority, guiding her arm back onto the stretcher.

Natasha touched the back of Becca's hand. "I'll ride in the ambulance with you."

Becca would have nodded gratefully if the EMTs hadn't been busy fixing her head in place. She looked around sure another familiar face would appear. When he didn't, fear surged up once more.

"Steve's not here," Natasha informed her, reading the anxiety. "He doesn't know. The director didn't want him distracted."

That didn't make sense. "Pierce?" she asked, though the name sounded like little more than a wet cough.

The EMT warned, "Ms. Stroud."

Natasha shook her head. "You have to hold on until we get to the hospital, okay? Hold on for Steve. He'll need you to be there when he wakes up."

Everything was so confusing. Wakes up? Was Steve sleeping? Maybe it was late. Or early. She was so tired. If she slept, it wouldn't hurt anymore. Becca thought she should ask more questions, but the EMTs shifted her into the ambulance and put a tube down her throat to keep the passage clear. They set up a bag of blood for a transfusion, and Becca quickly looked away because it reminded her of her accident. She looked to Natasha instead because she had to stay awake. That's what the EMTs kept saying.

For a moment, Natasha appeared uncertain, almost uncomfortable, but then she offered, "Would you like to hear how we took down Hydra? It's almost as good as a movie."

If she didn't have something, she was going to fall asleep. Becca tried to say "yes" around the tube, but when that didn't work, she winked.

Natasha leaned forward. "So after we left the Two Leaves…"

* * *

Steve stood balanced on a beam as the helicarrier shifted beneath his feet, plummeting towards the Potomac. He had to get through to Bucky, whose reappearance was nothing short of a miracle. He couldn't let his friend live for another second as this brainwashed assassin. He had to save him. The thought had beaten in the back of his mind like a drum since Bucky had vanished at the bridge. Save him. Save him. Bucky had been his whole world once. He would've done anything for Bucky, and neither time nor distance could not change that.

"I'm not gonna fight you." He let go of his shield, not caring where it landed. "You're my friend." He willed Bucky to see, to remember, hoping that with weapons aside Bucky might recognize his face.

But Bucky charged with a bellow, tackling him to the ground. "You're my mission," he stated. Pain exploded in Steve's head as Bucky punched him.

"You're." Steve saw a flash of blinding colors as Bucky landed another punch. He would take every blow, recompense for not catching his friend as he fell from that train.

"My." Another punch and he nearly choked on the blood pouring down his throat from a broken nose. It would all be over soon. At least he had tried. At least he could hope that Bucky would survive the crash and, free of Hydra, find a new life. Find something good in this world, or someone.

A vision of her appeared in an instant, like reality itself had fragmented under the rain of Bucky's punches to reveal one crystal clear image. Becca gazed up at him, eyes wet with held-back tears. She looked tired and haggard and in desperate need of reminding that there were good things that could blot out the bad. He had promised to take her somewhere special.

"Mission." His hand moved almost without thinking to catch the blow. Bucky yanked his fist free in what seemed like surprise, arm cocked for another punch. But he hesitated. And in that pause Steve saw a chance to save one of his best friends, and still make it home to the other one he'd left behind.

"Whatever happens, Buck," Steve croaked. "You know I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

Bucky's fist trembled, and his eyes suddenly widened in horror. That was how Steve knew he had gotten through.

Some part of the helicarrier smashed into floor with a bang, and Steve felt himself sliding into open air. He made a feeble grab for Bucky, but too late. He was falling.

He attempted to maneuver, to get himself into position to hit the water with as few injuries as possible. His body refused to cooperate. Between bullets and physical blows, he had been hit too many times. So he sent up a prayer that by some miracle he would make it to shore, if only so he could keep his promise to his girl.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Short Steve POV, but there will be a longer one next week. Plenty of trauma for everyone. And plenty more to come. I promise there is a light at the end of the very long, very dark tunnel. See you soon!**


	6. Together Alone

As he rose towards consciousness, Steve became aware of a soreness running through his whole body. He expected to feel the cold any second. The cold brought out the worst aches and pains, and he had spent most of his life dreading the impending winter months, which came not only with aches but the inevitable bouts of sickness. Only he didn't feel cold, and he sensed bright light waiting on the other side of his eyelids.

And he didn't get that soreness anymore.

The last seconds before he hit the water flooded back to him, from Bucky's horrified expression to the air rushing past his ears as he fell.

Steve opened his eyes and stared at an unfamiliar window. His gaze slid over the room, assessing, trying to make sense of where he was. The room had a sterility and muted color palette that made it nearly instantly recognizable as a hospital room. This made him conscious of the tubes stuck in his arms and other places, their pressure faint but unpleasant nonetheless, as well as the points on his body where soreness teetered on the verge of pain. Soft music played from an… iPod, iPhone, iTouch? (He could never tell them apart.) He didn't know the melody, but the effect was calming, and when he saw Sam reading beside him, any remaining anxiety about his location dispersed. He closed his eyes once more and settled back against the bed.

"On your left."

Sam didn't respond, but Steve was certain he'd heard. He let music fill the silence, allowing himself a short reprieve after the last few chaotic days. Having accomplished something, fought for something good and won, he felt more at peace than he had in a while. He appreciated that Sam didn't interrupt, and that Sam had been holding vigil for when he woke up. They barely knew each other, but Steve thought this kind of loyalty boded well for a future as friends.

Finally, he asked, "What happened?"

"We found you on the bank of the Potomac unconscious, brought you to Sibley Memorial Hospital. They had to do surgery for that bullet wound in your chest, and they kept you sedated for a while to let you heal. Then they let you get your beauty sleep 'cause you were…" Sam snorted a quick, sharp breath. "…in pretty bad shape. 'Course you're looking a lot better than I think us regular folk would."

Steve frowned in confusion. How had he gotten up on the bank? He didn't remember swimming. He didn't think he could have swum what with the condition he'd been in. And with his heavy uniform, especially the boots, he should have sunk as soon as he'd hit the water.

Bucky must have saved him. It cheered him to have proof that Bucky could regain some part of the man he had been before the Winter Soldier. However, if S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra had gotten to him, there could have been trouble.

"Has anyone seen Bucky?"

"Not as far as I know."

Then he would have to find him. Natasha would be able to dig something up, he was certain. He planned to ask as soon as he saw her. He wasn't surprised at her absence; she'd have her hands full with the aftermath of S.H.I.E.L.D.' s collapse. But he was taken aback at someone else's absence.

"Where's Becca?" He would've expected her to be stationed beside Sam, ready to leap on him the moment he woke up.

When Sam said nothing, Steve opened his eyes again. He followed Sam's gaze to the foot of his bed. What he had thought at quick glance was a table with a bundle of spare blankets, he realized was actually a cot. The blankets rose and fell slightly as he watched them, and there at one end, he saw a glint of dark blonde hair.

That was more like it. Refusing to leave his room even to sleep. As a matter of fact, Steve was surprised she had accepted a bed at all instead of waiting stubbornly in a chair, insisting she was fine. But she had gotten as little sleep as he had over the past few days, possibly even less, so he was glad she'd chosen to rest.

"How's she holding up?" The pause was troubling, and Sam's reluctant expression made it doubly so. Steve supposed he should've expected as much. Becca hadn't been in a good place when he'd left her in the hotel, and his getting beaten and shot wouldn't have helped. "Well, she's sleeping. Has she eaten a real meal?" Usually when Becca got upset, she resorted to copious amounts of junk food in place of meals.

"I don't know about last night," Sam admitted, "but she had breakfast."

"Good." Steve shifted, meaning to wake up his legs a bit, but the movement caused pain to flare through his abdomen.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, swell. I kinda missed plunging towards the ground and getting knocked out. I'm almost disappointed it's not the twenty-second century."

Sam grinned. "Twenty-third. I'm actually RoboSam. Once you get your lazy self out of that bed, I can show you how these robot legs will run circles around you."

"Well, that's not much incentive for me to get my lazy self out of bed then. Especially since I wouldn't want to embarrass you."

"Oh, that's how it is, huh?" Steve shrugged. With a shake of his head, Sam got up and placed his book on the chair. "All right, well, I'm gonna take a walk of shame over to the nurses' station. I'm supposed to let them know when you've woken up."

Steve nodded, although he would have preferred more time without getting poked, prodded, and asked questions. In fact, he felt like he could fall back asleep. One of the IVs must have some kind of medicine making him drowsy.

As Sam left the room, Steve noticed through the blinds a man in uniform standing at attention a step or two away from the door. It looked like precautions had been taken to ensure their safety from those Hydra agents who had escaped. Which was good because he didn't think much of his chances of taking out any member of Hydra at the moment.

He allowed himself to close his eyes once more. If he listened carefully, he could hear muffled snoring underneath the music. Except there was a quality to Becca's snoring that wasn't quite right. Although he would tease her about it, he didn't mind her snoring. It was quiet and even, and once he'd gotten used to the noise, it didn't wake him up. But now, each snore sounded closer to a wheeze, a strained rush of air that grated on his eardrums. Maybe she had twisted herself into an unusual position beneath the blankets, or sleeping on a cot wasn't agreeing with her. Or maybe she had come down with something after the strain of escaping from the Triskelion. If she was sick, at least one of the nurses could give her medicine. He made a mental note to ask Sam if she had looked or sounded ill because he knew her too well to think she'd bring it up.

Sam returned with a nurse named Jillian who asked a series of questions while fluttering around him, checking the medical equipment and making notes. She spoke at a mindfully quiet volume and gave Becca's cot a wide birth. A doctor joined her, and she handed over the clipboard. Doctor Thomson explained the surgery, as well as the sprains he had sustained along with an "impressive" amount of bruising. The only question Steve could think to ask was how long until he could get out of bed.

"You'll be home by the end of the day," said Doctor Thomson. She eyed him sternly and added, "However, you should stay off your feet as much as possible for the next forty-eight hours. You need time to heal. We don't want any more internal bleeding."

The thought of having to lie around for two days was disappointing to say the least, but he'd been laid up for longer before. "Yes, ma'am."

"It would be best if you stay with someone during that time. You can use the phone if you need to make arrangements." Her eyes darted towards Sam, as though she expected that he would be the most viable choice.

However, Steve thought that Sam had done more than enough for him. Doctor Thomson hadn't forbidden him from getting up at all, so he could get to the bathroom and kitchen, meaning he could take care of himself. Not that he would have to. Becca was going to volunteer, which should be all right. Knowing how much she disliked being waited on she was sick, he figured Becca wouldn't block his every attempt to look after himself. A couple of the attempts, sure, but he could concede that much. As long as she conceded that he should be looking out for her, too. She had been shot and very shaken up, after all.

"Don't worry." He nodded at Becca's sleeping form. "She'll take care of me."

From the reaction he got, it was as if he'd suggested she would be carrying him about on a golden chair and obeying his every whim. Jillian stilled her fluttering motions about his bed, eyebrows hiking in shock, though she was quick to look away. Doctor Thomson's smile didn't falter, but he read disapproval in the sudden crease of her brow.

"I'm sure she will," Doctor Thompson said, "but I think it would be best if Ms. Stroud also got her rest."

His worry rekindled. "Is she all right?"

Doctor Thompson regarded him, hands folded on top of her clipboard, immobile. In contrast, Jillian seemed to busy herself with straightening one corner of the fitted sheet of her bed. Each slight tug of the sheet against his shoulder mirrored the gentle, methodical beating of his heart, which seemed to be thudding in his ears. Something had happened to Becca. He was sure of it now.

"I'm afraid I can't discuss my other patients without their permission," replied Doctor Thompson. The thud of his heart turned to a roar. "Jillian will be back with an early lunch for you, and of course, I will be around to check up on you in a few hours." She got to her feet.

Jillian appeared nearly as taken aback as he was by the abruptness of this departure, but she flashed him an uncertain smile and headed for the door.

As soon as the door shut, Steve looked to Sam for answers.

Sam held up his hands as though he'd been physically threatened. "She's gonna be all right. I'll tell you what I know, but only if you try to stay cool. Otherwise, you're gonna bring all kind of doctors and nurses in here, and that might wake Becca up, which I know isn't what you want."

Steve clenched his jaw and nodded.

"Okay." Sam lowered his hands. "Here's what I know: Hydra got a hold of Becca somehow. They released a video of her and said you were supposed to come to them. When you didn't show, they kept releasing more videos. And they roughed her up."

"What does that mean exactly? 'Roughed her up?'"

"She's got bruises on her face, and they cut up her neck pretty good."

Rage poured through every muscle of his body, pressed at the back of his eyeballs, set his teeth on edge. No one was allowed to hurt a single hair on Becca's head, much less cause her serious harm. And the fact that they had put her on display made him sick. "How many videos?"

"I don't know. I didn't see them. Agent Romanoff said she thought there were around ten."

The rage grew hotter, fanned by betrayal. Nat had gone off on her own agenda before, and now she had done it again. But this time it was personal. Any good will they had built together in the fight against Hydra snuffed out. And if Nat had known about these videos, then Nick had most certainly known and said nothing.

"That son of a bitch," Steve snarled.

"Hey, you've gotta calm down," Sam reminded him. "It's over now. The people who did it have already been taken out, and Becca's alive. She's got a lot of people ready to take care of her. Her family's here. Her friends are here. She ended up chasing them off by saying she needed to sleep, but they haven't gone far. The best thing you can do is not to make a big fuss about it. I've seen enough to know that's not what she needs right now."

It was about the only thing Sam could have said to put a crack in the blinding hue of red that had filled his vision. Steve flexed his fingers, uncurling them from fists. If Becca woke up, he didn't want to greet her with a torrent of angry promises made on her behalf. He would have to do, to say something else. But the only thing that came to mind was…

"This is my fault."

The statement doused his rage. Becca had been put through hell because Hydra had wanted him to get to him. And he could blame Nat or Nick for not telling him, but there wouldn't have been anything to tell if he hadn't brought Becca into the situation in the first place. Or if he had taken two damn seconds to turn on a radio or borrow a phone to check up on what was going on. News traveled faster than ever these days, and there were hundreds of ways to get to it.

Sam asked, "So what're you gonna do about it?"

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "You're not gonna tell me it's not my fault?" That's all his guilt had ever been met with, gentle reassurances.

But Sam stated, "In my experience, people don't feel less guilty just 'cause someone else tells them something's not their fault. Would it make you feel better if I told you that, even if it's what I really believe?"

"No."

Sam held up a hand to show he'd proved his point. "Well then, what're you gonna do about it?"

Steve considered what he could do. Stop something like this from ever happening again, that was for sure. He would find a place somewhere and turn it into a safe house. Or he could break up with her. He pictured Becca's crushed expression, weighed it against the alternative. But he liked the safe house idea better, as it involved less of a chance of hurting her. Also, he couldn't imagine letting her go, especially not after going through all this. He assured himself that this wasn't him being selfish, but he wasn't entirely sure.

In any case, a safe house didn't fix anything immediate. He would take her somewhere nice for their anniversary; he hadn't forgotten that promise. But still it wasn't enough. He had to atone somehow to make it up to her. Suddenly, his path seemed obvious.

"Is that your phone?" he asked, indicating the device playing music. Sam nodded. "Can I borrow it?"

"Sure." Sam got up to retrieve his phone from the stand it rested on. "What'd you want it for?"

"I need to watch those videos." He held out a hand, the brace for his wrist making so he had to stretch his whole arm out flat.

Sam didn't drop the phone into his waiting hand. "Why?"

"They were meant for me."

"So?"

"So I should see them." He didn't have the patience anymore. He knew Sam was trying to help, but he was tired and sore and thinking too hard made his head ache. "I either see them now or see them later," he snapped. "What difference does it make?"

Mattress springs creaked, and Becca sat up, rubbing one of her eyes. The iris of her other eye floated in blood. Her face was a patchwork of cuts and bruises. Her swollen cheeks gave her a chipmunk-like appearance, the cluster of bruises on them like a grotesque imitation of rogue, emphasizing the puffiness. A particularly nasty looking gash running above her left eyebrow had been stitched closed. More stitches ran along her jaw and below, two neat lines with the hint at more beneath the stiff, white brace around her neck.

Steve stared at her, appalled at how awful she looked, before he was so overwhelmed with the desire to hold her that his back lifted off the mattress. Becca blinked at him and finally seemed to become aware of what she was seeing. She made this little gasping sound that damn near broke his heart. In her hurry to extract herself from the blankets while getting off the cot, she nearly fell – which had him ready to jump out of bed himself – but she righted herself at the last second and rushed over. She reached for him, but her fingers curled like she wasn't sure if she could touch him or not.

A million words jostled in his mouth, vying for first place in line. Becca spoke before he could.

"You should know better than to go swimming in the Potomac." Her voice had the same wheezing quality that her snores did. "You look terrible."

Steve had to smile. "You look beautiful."

Becca huffed in disbelief, smiling back as tears filled her eyes. She leaned down and pressed her lips ever so gently against his. She smelled like sweat and soap and topical medicine. Her hair felt frizzy and stringy against his knuckles as he touched the back of her head and, when she made no sound of pain or protest, drew her closer. But the kiss was no less perfect. He couldn't even bring himself to care that Sam was watching, though with a discreet snap of blinds and click of the door, he left.

When they broke apart, he mumbled, "I'm sorry," but Becca hushed him and kissed him again. She perched on the edge of the bed, and he scooted over as much as he could to give her more room.

"How are you feeling?" she questioned. "And don't say 'all right.'"

Denied the answer he would have given, Steve admitted, "Tired. Sore. What about you?"

"About the same."

"I heard your family's here. And some friends."

Becca frowned in obvious displeasure. "Yeah. My parents got here really early this morning with Auntie Libby. Ally carpooled with Kellyn and Adam. I guess they wanted to take the train, but service was suspended, so they all somehow jammed into Adam's car. Getting in and out of D.C. right now is apparently a nightmare, but they made it."

He rubbed a soothing hand over the outside of her thigh. "It's nice of them to come, but it's good they let you get some sleep."

"Mmm." Becca glanced moodily at the closed blinds. "My parents want me to go home with them for a while. When I told them I was staying with you, they said you could come too." Her lips twisted in a momentary grin of mischief. "I might've scandalized my mom by asking if she really wanted us getting up to shenanigans under her roof."

His neck itched in embarrassment. "We're not 'getting up to shenanigans' anywhere near your parents."

Becca winked at him, but slipped back into a frown. "I do want to get out of here. Not before you can leave too of course, but you know how I feel about hospitals."

"I know." When she had been stuck in the hospital after her overdose, the question she had asked the doctor more than any other was whether or not she could leave yet.

"I think it'd be better if we stayed at a hotel or something for a while. I want to go home, but… I know that there are still Hydra agents out there, and they probably have my address. I overheard Sam telling Nat that they trashed his house when they thought I was sleeping. And if Hydra has my address, they might know where my family lives. And my friends."

When she shivered, Steve took her hand. She was right to be cautious, but he hated that she had to be. "Becca…"

"Don't you say you're sorry again. You've said it way too much lately, and I don't want to hear it anymore."

"Then what do you want me to say?" Steve asked, at a loss.

Becca chewed the corner of her lip. "Have you watched the videos of – the ones they made of me?"

Not having seen them seemed even more inexcusable now that she asked, and Steve was afraid she would think he'd avoided watching the videos out of shame or, worse, because their message no longer held any threat. "No, I –"

"Don't," she interrupted, the force behind that one word like a door slamming shut. "That's what I want you to say. That you won't watch them."

However, he refused to allow her to let him off so easy. "But –"

Becca railroaded over him. "Everyone else I care about has seen them, and now they look at me different. It's like my accident. Actually, it's more like when I OD'd but a hundred times worse. They treat me like…" She threw up her arms in disgust. "Like I came back from the dead or something. No one knows what to do or say. And they all try to do things for me. It's like because this one awful thing happened I'm, like, suddenly incapable of being a real person who can take care of herself anymore."

Steve could see how having people hovering around her like that would get frustrating real quick. Hell, he knew it got frustrating real quick. Back before the serum, people had treated him about the same, walking around him on eggshells and acting like it was their civic duty to help him. He thought him and Becca had been through all this when she'd admitted to needed pain medication ages what seemed like forever ago, but it sounded like she needed a reminder.

"I wouldn't treat you that way."

"You don't know that!" The ferocity in her expression dimmed as she sighed. "Just, please promise me you won't watch the videos."

Whatever Becca wanted from him, he had to agree. It didn't seem fair for him not to see how much she'd suffered on his behalf, but it was clear that she was still hurting and would continue to unless he did something.

"All right. I won't watch them," Steve promised, and he was rewarded with a relieved look.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

When Becca touched his hand, the one without the sprained wrist, he turned it over. Seemed like their hands might be the one undamaged part of them. They both had bullet wounds, scrapes, and bruises. They even wore matching hospital gowns. But although he wouldn't mind sharing most anything with her, he wished they hadn't come through this fight like a pair of child's toys, battered, beaten, stitched up to keep the stuffing from falling out. He'd have given anything for Becca to be the pristine doll left on the shelf. But then, he supposed he wouldn't feel quite the same about her if she had all the personality and strength of a display doll. She was tough. She would fight tooth and nail.

Still, that didn't mean there weren't parts of her made of porcelain. Her independence, he knew that was one of the places. She had to feel like she could do everything on her own, and her family and friends, though well meaning, were taking that from her. So if he could give her a sliver of that back by giving up some of his, he would. It might be difficult, but he would.

"You know, Doctor Thomson said I'll need someone to take care of me for the next forty-eight hours," he informed her.

"Well, I did like playing nurse when I was little," Becca mused. "And it's not like I'm gonna be out and about for at least a week myself." She touched her cheek and winced. "Possibly two."

"Two whole weeks." He wrapped an arm around her waist, careful to avoid the bullet wound. "What'll we do with all that time?"

"I know. I think I've only seen you for about two weeks total since you joined S.H.I.E.L.D."

From the careless way she tossed that comment out, Steve didn't think she'd meant anything by it. Certainly, she hadn't sounded resentful. But he still felt badly. S.H.I.E.L.D. kept him so busy that it was easy to forget that days and weeks flew by between their calls and visits.

"Well, that's gonna change starting right now."

"No kidding." Becca patted his hand like he needed consoling for his lost job. "I'm not so sure S.H.I.E.L.D.'s recovering from this fiasco. At least, for a while. But you can definitely find something else in the meantime."

"No, I mean, I'm gonna be around for you more."

Becca was so taken aback that she physically jerked away from him an inch. It made Steve want to pull her towards him, and apologize, although she had asked him not to. He should have realized long before now that she deserved more of his time, and that she would be so surprised at his resolution said volumes.

"I know what you do is important," she said at last. "The world needs Captain America."

He squeezed her hand. "So do you. And you're just as important."

Her faced scrunched up, and he thought she might start crying, but she kissed him instead. When she pulled back, her eyes were dry, her gaze soft. "I'm really glad you're okay."

"Me too," Steve replied, because he had a lot of time to catch up on.

* * *

Becca leaned against the hotel door, exhausted. It had been a long day.

Once Doctor Thompson had decided that she and Steve could leave the hospital, Auntie Libby had picked them up. She had smuggled them out in her car – escorted by a surreptitious dark blue Honda – and driven them to the Marriott. Their quiet hotel room quickly became overtaken by family and friends, circling and fussing. After tolerating them all through a meal of take-out Chinese, Becca announced that she was tired. Thankfully the room had cleared fast.

At her insistence, Steve had propped himself up on the queen-sized bed since their arrival. She crossed the room to sit beside him.

"That was a lot of food."

"Sure was," he agreed.

She leaned against the headboard and closed her eyes. While she had been using her tiredness as an excuse to get some breathing room, she did feel ready to pass out for the night.

"I know it's early, but would you mind if I went to bed?"

"Fine with me."

"Awesome." Becca slid off the bed to dig through the bag of her things Ally had brought from home, proving once again why she was the best friend ever. "You can stay up and watch TV or whatever. You know I'll sleep through pretty much anything."

"I might turn in myself," Steve said with a yawn. "I know I was sleeping most of the morning, but I'm still tired."

"That's probably the food coma setting in."

"Probably."

Becca strode into the bathroom, shutting the door and flicking the switch for the light and fan. She dumped her toiletries beside the sink and peered into the mirror. A blood-filled eye stared back at her. The worst of her cuts were covered by the neck brace, but plenty of stitches were visible. The swelling had gone down a little. Not enough that she didn't look like a squirrel with cheeks full of acorns. As if she didn't look bad enough, her skin had broken out. She poked at a patch of zits on her chin and winced. Great. Perfect. She thought she'd been done with these after college, but no. Might as well go ahead and look more hideous.

She made a face at her reflection and busied herself getting ready for bed. She changed into a pair of sweatpants and old t-shirt, gingerly washed her face, brushed her teeth, used the toilet. She was washing her hands when she heard something over the rush of water pouring from the faucet. Was that Steve? She turned the faucet off. Definitely Steve talking. But who was he talking to?

Abandoning her dirty clothes, Becca opened the bathroom door and leaned out. Steve was prowling beside the bed, the hotel phone pressed to his ear. And he sounded _pissed_. He kept glancing at the TV, looking about ready to throw the phone straight through it.

Although she could see the screen from the bathroom door and hear the news anchor okay, it took her a few seconds to comprehend what at happened. The banner across the bottom of the screen read "Captain America Sex Scandal," which made no sense at first. Steve was about the last person she'd ever expect to be involved in a sex scandal of any kind. But then after a warning from the anchor that parents might want to cover their children's ears, she heard her voice.

" _There's my handsome agent… Do you like it?"_

The memory came back instantly. This was when Steve had returned from his first S.H.I.E.L.D. mission. She had spent three hours pacing her apartment in these super uncomfortable garters and this corset-like outfit she'd ordered online, retouching her approximation of old-timey pin up girl makeup and forcing herself not to put even more hairspray in her hair to prevent it from drooping.

" _Yeah,"_ Steve's voice replied, rough with desire. _"Yes, ma'am."_

She had unlocked the front door after Steve finally pressed the buzzer, so when he knocked, she could call for him to come in and scurry to strike a provocative – and more practiced than she'd ever admit – pose in her bedroom. His eyes had turned dark when he saw her, while his knuckles turned white from his grip on the doorframe.

" _Then tell me that you missed me. And then tell me how much you want to *beep* my *beep* *beep* and maybe I'll let you."_

" _I missed you. So darn much."_ Footsteps, rustling. She remembered straightening up from the not-quite sitting, not-quite reclining pose on the edge of the bed as Steve knelt between her legs. _"And I – I'd like to *beep* your *beep.*"_

Someone had recorded them in her bedroom during their most private moments.

Becca walked over to the TV, transfixed, and turned up the volume. Steve made an attempt to take the remote, but when she pulled it away, he let her be and continued his tirade into the phone.

Apparently, included in the S.H.I.E.L.D. files that Natasha had dumped online was surveillance on both her and Steve's apartments from as recent as last week until all the way back before they were dating. She gaped at the screen. Everything she had said in that time only a remote click or Google search away. Every private conversation, every sound she'd made. People all over the world could be gossiping about her secrets, masturbating to the audio of her having sex with Steve, picking apart her entire life, picking apart the lives of those around her. Her throat seemed to constrict. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She just sat there, staring as the anchor moved on from the sex scandal to her drug abuse, promising an exclusive with the EMT who had brought her to the hospital when she'd OD'd.

Likely she would have sat there in horror, compulsively watching her life laid bare on public television if Steve hadn't crouched in front of her, blocking the screen.

"I'm gonna fix this, all right?" he promised. "I was talking to Devika, and she said we can figure something out. Do damage control."

Becca giggled, a high-pitched, wavering giggle on the verge of turning into a sob. There was no fixing this. He couldn't fix it. His press agent couldn't fix it. Once something was on the internet and free to download, it never, ever went away. But Steve looked so concerned that she choked off the giggle.

"Sure," she said. "Yeah. We'll fix it."

They stared at each other. Becca didn't know what else she could say. S.H.I.E.L.D. had collapsed, Hydra had come back, she'd been tortured on television, and yet their sex life was front page news. She almost started laughing again, but if she opened her mouth, she thought the laughter would take over completely.

Steve put his hand on the remote, and she let him have it. "How about we turn this off, huh?" He shut the TV off and placed the remote on top. Then, he sat next to her on the bed, hands clasped awkwardly on his lap.

Silence fell. Thick, painful silence filled with the rumbling of their lives falling apart. Becca couldn't stand it. "So Natasha told me that you found Bucky?"

For several seconds, Steve didn't reply. He glanced at her, uncertainty shadowing his frown. She forced a smile. Please talk about Bucky. Please talk about anything else.

"Yeah," he said, and sighed. "Yeah, I found Bucky."

"That must have been a shock."

"It was… something. Didn't you say you were tired? I don't wanna keep you up."

And that's how their days went. They didn't talk about Hydra or the sex scandal or anything that actually mattered. Becca knew they should, but whenever she looked at Steve this long, uncomfortable pause would rise up between them like a balloon threatening to burst. He tried to ask about the cuts on her neck; she changed the subject. She made a half-hearted joke about Tony having done much more scandalous things that made news but soon disappeared; he changed the subject. They were living in the same room and yet it was as if they were existing in their own separate spheres, bumping up against each other, but never quite touching.

Seeing her family and friends became torturous as well. She couldn't look at any of them without wondering what they'd heard. Were they treating her differently because of the Hydra videos, or because of the leaked surveillance? She constantly felt irritable, which wasn't helped by the stupid neck brace she had to wear or the throbs of pain every time she moved. When Steve swallowed the Oxycodone he'd been prescribed, she pretended not to be watching enviously, and reminded herself of all the reasons why she'd refused a prescription.

Devika showed up on the third day. Becca hadn't been entirely sure if she would come. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been the one to decide Steve needed a press agent, and she assumed they were also the ones paying her. But here she was, planning on a press conference to get out their side of the story.

Her parents had insisted on buying Devika dinner, along with Ally – Auntie Libby, Kellyn, and Adam had to "return home," which gave Becca the sinking feeling that her situation had made them uncomfortable around her. They picked up Thai food, and all sat around Steve and Becca's shared room. Once dinner was over, the room cleared, Devika promising to drop by first thing tomorrow to go over what Steve should cover at the conference.

Becca had hugged her parents and Ally goodnight. She waved as they headed down the hallway, a sense of dread falling over her as she slunk back into the hotel room. Steve was still polishing off a carton of khao man gai. Or rather had polished off, she corrected as he added the empty carton to an impressive stack beside the bed. He picked up another one of the half-finished cartons and began chowing down. Someone was hungry.

She had barely eaten herself, having only a bit of rice and some soup while her mother hovered over her shoulder. She knew she should be hungry, but swallowing was so painful that so much as thinking of eating made her feel nauseated. Bile rose up her throat as she watched Steve take a large bite out of a piece of fish. Bleh. The food smell seemed to thicken around her, cloying and overpowering. She needed to get out of here.

"I'm taking a shower," she announced.

His throat constricted as he swallowed, and her stomach lurched. "All right."

In the bathroom, Becca stripped out of her clothes and carefully undid her neck brace, which she placed next to the sink. She turned to the shower, and then realized she couldn't take one. Like, duh. She'd been using dry shampoo for three days. Doctor Thompson had told her no showering until the cuts on her neck had healed.

Fuck it. She was going to take a shower. As long as she stood far enough back, the water wouldn't touch her neck. The shower wasn't about getting clean anyway. Showers helped her relax. A bath might do the same, but hotel baths just seemed gross. Who knew what had been in this tub?

She turned the water on hot and stepped into the spray. Complimentary shampoo and soaps faced her in one corner of the tub. She bent to pick up the soap, hissed as she moved her neck the wrong way, and squatted instead. Closing her eyes, she focused on lathering up the soap, rubbing her skin clean. Mmmm, this was better. How could Steve spend only five minutes in the shower? She enjoyed them too much to spend less than at least fifteen minutes. And with an unlimited hot water supply, she could stay in here as long as she wanted.

All of a sudden, warm droplets splattered across the right side of her face.

Becca gasped, clasping a hand to her throat, which flared with pain. She'd been cut. They'd cut her. There was so much blood. She could feel it.

Her legs gave out, and she barely managed to catch herself on the shower wall, slumping to the floor and clutching her neck as the pain sharpened. She was bleeding. Oh god, oh god. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each panicked breath. She lifted her hand, expecting to see it covered in blood. But her hand was clean.

She stared at it. But. What?

Becca touched her neck again and double-checked. Nothing. It had just been water.

What an idiot. Of course, it was just water. You're fine. She closed her eyes. You're fine. A knife glinted in her memory. She opened her eyes as she bent forward, vomiting up her meager dinner, sobbing in agony as her throat burned. Wet spray coated her as she crouched on all fours, crying and drying heaving.

When her stomach gave up, she lowered herself down, pressing her eyes to the back of her hands. Despite the heat of the shower, she shivered. This was stupid. She was being stupid. All of this because of a little water. She cried harder, her body wracked with sobs. Stop it. Stop being so pathetic. But she couldn't stop and that made everything worse.

Water gathered on her back. It ran across her shoulders, dripped from her hair. Becca lay there, not sure if she was still crying or the wetness on her face was shower water. She wanted to forget, to sleep. She wanted the deep sleep brought on by Oxy, or the carefree, bubbly energy of Adderall.

Steve knocked on the door. "Are you all right? You've been in there a real long time."

One of the rivulets of water streaming along the tub turned pink. She must have popped one of her stitches or something.

The doorknob jiggled. "Becca?"

She watched the pink water, and anger prickled in her chest. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for Steve. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't have put her under surveillance and she wouldn't have gotten kidnapped and tortured and made into a sleazy headline.

He hadn't even asked if she was all right in days. But trust him to try when she was at her most pathetic. When she was crawling around on all fours, he would swoop in, but when she was being tortured? Oh no. He was the one person in the country without access to a TV.

"Becca?"

She hated how worried he sounded. She hated how guilty it made her feel. She hated that she was angry with him and herself and the world. She hated all of it.

"I'm gonna break down the door if you –"

"Shut up!" she screamed. "Shut the fuck up and go away!"

No response. Becca pulled herself tight into a ball, squeezing her eyes shut so tight that her face ached.

Slowly, the bubbling pit of resentment drained to a puddle, leaving her with shame. She got out of the shower and toweled off. The bandages on her throat had turned the same pink as the water. She pulled off the soaking gauze. Blood oozed out of several of the cuts. She had fresh bandages in the bedroom, but Steve would see that she'd make a mess of herself. So she pressed several layers of toilet paper to the stitches, and her neck brace held the wad in place.

Her hand paused on the door. Maybe she should spend the night in the bathroom. No, don't be ridiculous. She twisted the knob.

Steve stood up from the bed, looking at her with these big, sad puppy dog eyes.

A hundred apologies hovered in easy reach. Shame won out. Becca shuffled past him, eyes down, and got into bed with her back turned. She heard Steve sigh and a creak as he sat on the floor. He was still there when she woke up in the morning, staring off into nothing.

She tried to make it up to him by staying extra close, holding his hand, stuff like that, but the damage had been done. His shoulders had this defeated sag to them that hadn't been there before.

Somehow, she had to fix this. But how?

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So much to deal with, and Becca and Steve just aren't dealing with any of it. But next chapter, there's a press conference coming and boy, are they going to have to deal with some of it. See you soon!**


	7. From Screen To Stage

Steve had assumed that Becca's addiction would prove to be the biggest hurdle in their relationship between the secrets, lies, misunderstandings, breakup, and near fatality. But they had made the hurdle, and, supposedly, learned from their mistakes.

Yet, they now faced a hurdle just as high, and he hadn't a clue how to make the jump. Too much had happened too quickly, S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra and Bucky and the videos and the leaked surveillance. Problem after problem mounted on top of each other without a chance to deal with a single one.

It was like being on a battlefield, trying to face multiple, unique enemies all at once. He had tried tackling one at a time, opting for the Hydra videos of Becca as he figured they must be bothering her the most. He concluded that the best strategy would be to strike up a direct conversation, since she was the one who had reminded him on several occasions that talking about his feelings could help.

But when he asked about her cuts, she had answered with a clipped "fine" and moved on to sharing a story Ally had told her. Not only had he thought talking would be the best strategy, it was his only strategy. When it failed, he retreated. To push the tactic would have been unfair. After all, he found himself employing the same evasive maneuver when Becca brought up the leaked surveillance. Thinking about the surveillance drew up this spattering of rage, shame, indignation, and disbelief, and he refused to let those emotions spill out over her while she suffered in silence.

So the hurdle grew higher.

Steve knew he had to figure out something soon. He should feel closer than ever living with Becca in this one room instead of feeling like they'd never been farther apart. He was failing her, for the third time in less than a week. Her screaming through the bathroom door had proved that she knew it as well. Although she had been especially affectionate since that night, he could see the desperation in her eyes, like she was begging him to find a way for them to return to the way things were. He saw that same desperation reflected back whenever he looked in a mirror.

Hopefully, working with Devika had made some kind of a start. She had already been contacted by Tony's legal team, who were attempting to remove the surveillance and torture videos from public access. She seemed thrilled with the team, assuring him that they had an excellent track record in managing compromising videos. As his S.H.I.E.L.D.-appointed lawyer was occupied with her employer's collapse, Steve was grateful for the assistance. He took no issue with exposing wrongdoings, but he despised unnecessary invasions of privacy, be it by the government or the average joe.

The press conference was another step. Devika hoped that explaining his side of the story would show that he had nothing to hide. Steve agreed, and also insisted that the reporters be allowed to ask questions at the end. While Devika had argued – she wanted to avoid further controversy, which she'd insisted "is more likely to happen the more you talk" – ultimately she agreed, with the stipulation that the question portion would not be broadcast live.

While he thought this all made some kind of headway in jumping the hurdle, Steve felt like it wasn't enough. Neither step affected Becca in an immediate way. He needed to dispel her doubts and fears, a difficulty as she wouldn't talk about them.

Steve pondered this problem as he turned on the news. He actively avoided watching when Becca was in the room, but she had left him to his press conference planning. Devika had departed a short while ago, and he wanted to get a firsthand sense of how the media currently viewed the issues he intended on covering before outlining his speech. He spent a few minutes on each channel, flipping back and forth when the station put on commercials.

Most of the media fell squarely on his side. Devika had assured him that public opinion was strong as well. Her concern was getting him and Becca out of the spotlight as fast as possible by shifting interest towards S.H.I.E.L.D. and the national security threat of Hydra. That he had rooted out Hydra from S.H.I.E.L.D. counted as a point in his favor.

However, some people held reservations. They wanted to know why he hadn't rescued Becca and why he had never insisted she go to the police about her purchase of illegal medication. There were also rumblings about how could he be Captain America and, as Devika had tactfully put it, "take an untraditional, less dominant role in the bedroom."

This made Steve boiling mad. Not only was his sex life no one else's business, but his preferences had no bearing on what he was and was not capable of. Devika had been unimpressed with his assertion that if people thought he wasn't a fair representation of America because of his sex life, they should read a thing or two about male figures throughout American history and their reliance on strong women.

"Just look at the Roosevelts!" he'd exclaimed. "If people think Mrs. Roosevelt never… Well, I'm saying I'm not the only one; I know that."

Devika had regarded him with bemusement. "I'm not sure if you're serious or you've been reading historical fanfiction."

Neither did he appreciate that these people thought he should insist on Becca doing anything. It was like they were pushing for a return back to the Forties, when girls were expected to allow their man to have the final say. Well, that's not how he saw things. Becca was an adult and his partner. She had a right to make her own decisions. Unless those decisions threatened her life, he might argue, but he would ultimately support whatever she chose. And that these people thought that he could make Becca do anything in the first place showed how little they knew about her. When she had her mind set, she could be stubborn as a mule.

The one issue which he did concede was his inability to save Becca from Hydra's clutches. While Devika repeatedly reminded him that he was unaware of the situation – saying flat out he should tell this to the press in his speech – he shouldered the responsibility.

So when a Channel 5 announcer stated, _"Next up, how watching the Miss America videos may have given you PTSD,"_ Steve hesitated to flip the channel. He couldn't shake the feeling that by avoiding the videos he was getting off easy. Still, if Becca had asked him not to watch them, he wouldn't.

He changed the channel, but didn't lower the remote. Devika had told him that the videos themselves couldn't be shown while they were being discussed in court, so if he watched this segment about the videos, he wouldn't actually be going back on his promise. And maybe if he found out more about the videos, he would discover a way to reach Becca. So he returned to Channel 5.

After a series of commercials, the news anchor returned. _"Now for the latest on the Miss America videos. These are, of course, the series of ten horrific videos that kept us awake last Tuesday evening into Wednesday morning."_

Steve sucked in a breath. He hadn't known Becca had been held for that long. Sam had given him the estimate of ten videos, and Devika had mentioned their being released over "several hours." He had assumed that Hydra would have increased the output as time went on, and guessed maybe five or six hours at most.

" _But are these videos still keeping you up? Some psychologists are saying they might be. This is Dr. Arroba, a psychologist at George Washington University Hospital who says he's treated at least two patients who are showing symptoms of PTSD, or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, from watching the videos."_

The camera panned across the hospital, and then the image changed to the face of a middle-aged, balding man. Dr. Arroba explained, _"When people are exposed to footage that induces high levels of stress and anxiety, such as a video of someone being tortured, some of them can develop an acute stress reaction. This is your brain trying to make sense of whatever is causing the stress. Having recurring nightmares, long periods of depression, even emotional numbness can all be signs of PTSD."_

The news anchor's voice questioned, _"But can we really develop PTSD just from watching something happening on television?"_

" _Yes, absolutely,"_ Dr. Arroba confirmed _. "Your brain is aware you are watching a real person, and because humans have the incredible ability to empathize with others, we can experience the trauma of another person as our own. And the longer we experience the trauma, the more likely we are to develop some form of PTSD."_

" _Dr. Arroba is not alone in his theories."_ A report from the _New England Journal of Medicine_ appeared on the screen with certain areas of text highlighted. _"One national survey done after 9/11 showed that people who reported to have watched eight hours of television coverage of the attacks showed 'more substantial stress' than those who watched less coverage. However, Dr. Arroba has put forth the controversial claim that these latest videos could have an even greater psychological effect than the coverage of 9/11."_

The screen showed an image of smoke billowing from the World Trade Center while Dr. Arroba spoke. _"With 9/11, people were watching buildings come down. Of course, they represented more to us, they were an attack on our security as a country and they were the deaths of many, many people, but still, they were buildings."_

The image changed to a candid of Becca. She wasn't quite looking at the camera, a genuine smile on her lips and behind her Steve recognized his shoulder. _"When we watched the Miss America videos, what we saw was a person being destroyed slowly, methodically before our eyes. When the first videos came out, she looked a little nervous, but still in control. But every hour, we see her becoming overwhelmed by that knife cutting into her throat. She goes from in control to crying to the point where she seems to be barely conscious, her face almost unrecognizable from obvious beatings. And if this can happen to a superhero's girlfriend, then surely it can happen to any of us."_

The news anchor picked up the segment with a list of common PTSD symptoms and suggestions for seeking treatment, but Steve lost focus. He could imagine the videos now as he hadn't before. The defiant lift of Becca's chin in the first video, her determined expression, daring anyone to tell her that she wasn't all right. She had at least two cuts on her throat, so the Hydra agents must have either made them deeper with each video or added more every time. The pain must have gotten to her, the fear of feeling the knife again. Her eyes would turn bright with tears, her cheeks splotched the same red as the blood running down her neck. And finally, she would be slumped over, bruised and bloody. The whole time, she would have known why she was there, and she would have expected him to come. But he never had.

Steve ran a hand over his face. He understood why she had been so distant and why she had yelled. She had been hurt badly. She had been humiliated repeatedly in front of everyone who had watched – because he knew she would view the videos as revealing some kind of weakness. And he, the one person she would expect get her out, had been too occupied to think of her. He wasn't sure how she could even stand being in the same room as him.

Although he resumed switching between channels, he couldn't concentrate enough to think about his speech. Eventually, he gave up, turning off the TV and sitting motionless as he tried to figure out what could be said to Becca besides "I'm sorry."

When she returned, he still hadn't come up with anything.

"Hey, Devika left already?" she asked. "I thought you guys would be at it all night."

"No, it takes a couple days. Gotta let her think she might change my mind about a thing or two."

"Right."

They stayed as they were, him sitting on the bed, her standing while silence fell around them. Once upon a time, hours of quiet wouldn't have made a difference. They could enjoy each other's company without saying a word while she worked on her laptop and he drew or read. This kind of quiet felt wrong, uncomfortable.

"How's Seth?" Steve asked in an attempt to fill the silence while his mind still whirled with how to say what needed to be said. "Did he make it all right?"

"Yeah. He's doing good. Grad school's kicking his butt, but he said his classes are interesting." She held out a big, white box. "He brought pastries from this place near his campus. We cut them up to share, but I wasn't really hungry, so I saved most of my pieces for you."

"Thanks." He took the box. This could be his chance to bring up the videos, even if he didn't know exactly what to say. "Seems like you haven't been hungry a lot the last few days."

"Oh, um, yeah, I guess."

"You having trouble swallowing or anything?"

Becca shrugged and sank onto the bed, so close that she pressed up against him. She kissed his cheek and took his hand, showing that extra affection, like she thought physical touches could cross the separate frames that seemed to have formed around their lives. "I'm fine." She flipped open the lid of the box. "Aren't you gonna try these? Ally said the chocolate mousse cannoli is amazing. And my dad really liked these little pistachio cookie things."

"In a second."

"Well, you better hurry up or all the yummy flavor will leak out," she teased, bumping him with her shoulder.

Steve nearly let it go, dropping the issue as he had countless times in the past days. But he couldn't let her continue to act like nothing had happened. "Becca."

"Hmm?" She looked up at him. Whatever she saw in his face made her smile shrink.

He prayed for a miracle, that he would open his mouth and the words he had been searching for would appear. Unfortunately, when he did open his mouth, nothing came to him. No words were enough.

Suddenly, Becca's lips were against his. Steve twitched, startled by the abruptness of the kiss and the force behind it. Before he had a chance to recover, she pushed the pastry box out of his hands on onto the mattress, taking its place on his lap. He returned the kiss without thinking, sinking against the bed as she pushed him backwards. Her lips traveled over his jaw, down to his throat to kiss and nip at the patches of skin between still-healing bruises.

But while the sensation of her mouth distracted him for a minute, he noticed how she precariously teetered on his knees, her weight only partially on him. He figured she must have one foot on the floor, and it took him several more seconds to realize that with her neck brace, she had to shift further back, her whole body tilted so she could reach the sweet spots on his throat.

A grunt worked its way free as she stroked between his legs. She undid the zipper, but as her hand closed around him, all he could think about was whether she would try to give him a blowjob. Wouldn't it hurt her if she did? If she didn't and decided to stay on top, wouldn't the jerking motion while they fucked knock her neck around? Besides, he might accidently grab close to the bullet wound on her side. He thought maybe he should roll her over. However, swapping their positions might not fix the problem.

Then, Steve realized another problem. He wasn't getting hard. Becca stroked faster. She paused to lick her palm, but the added slickness as her hand glided up and down did nothing. The back of his neck turned hot with embarrassment. This had never happened before. Becca drew back slightly, and when he glanced down, he saw her frowning. He clenched his jaw, humiliated, willing himself to stiffen. He even tried thrusting against her hand. It didn't make a difference, and as she moved backwards to no doubt take him in her mouth, he had to stop her.

"Becca, I'm not… I don't think I can…"

She licked her bottom lip. "Maybe if I –"

"No, don't." He grabbed the arm she was using to stroke him causing her to finally stop. "I'm sorry. It's not you."

Her shoulders sagged. She wordlessly tucked him back into his boxers and zipped up his pants before crawling off of his lap.

He had disappointed her. Steve clutched the comforter to prevent himself from pounding the mattress in frustration. He had wanted to close the distance between them, but somehow he'd winded up making it worse. Some kind of boyfriend he was. He couldn't keep his girl safe or make her feel better; he couldn't even get it up for her.

"We're gonna be okay, right?" Becca asked in a small voice.

"Of course we'll be okay," he promised at once. She didn't reply, staring at the wall with her arms hugging her chest. He couldn't stand seeing her look so upset, so he sat up and put an arm around her. "We've got a lot on our plates. But once this press conference is over, people will start losing interest." As she leaned against him, he grew more confident. "And then in a few weeks, all the cuts and bruises will be healed," he pointed out, rubbing her arm. "It'll be like nothing ever happened."

Becca sniffed. "Right. Like nothing ever happened," she repeated flatly, pulling herself out of his grasp.

"No!" he said, mentally cursing himself for saying something so dumb. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Whatever."

"I meant –"

"I know what you meant."

Desperate and out of options, he blurted out, "Just tell me how I can help you."

"Well, it's a little late for that, don't you think?" Becca snapped. Her expression went slack, like she had surprised herself. He wasn't surprised, though. The harsh words had confirmed for him how she truly felt. "I'm – I'm sorry. That – I, um – I don't blame you. I don't."

Steve got up from the bed. She did blame him deep down, and she was right to. If he had proved anything to himself since she had come back tonight, it was that his being here wasn't doing any good. They had been cooped up too long together. He needed to get out, do something besides sitting on the bed as a constant reminder to her of his failure. Of course, he wouldn't go far. He had to be sure Becca was safe. But pacing the perimeter of the hotel, at least he'd feel like he was accomplishing something.

As he pulled on his jacket, Becca asked, "What are you doing?"

"Going out." He dug through the bag Sam had put together from his compromised apartment in search of his baseball cap. If he pulled the brim low and kept his gaze down, he found that most people took no interest in him.

"But… but Hydra's still out there. And you don't even have your shield back. And you're not all healed up yet."

The odds of Hydra showing up seemed slim, but he found himself wishing they would. He itched for a fight. Fighting a known enemy made sense. And more than that, he felt as though he deserved whatever pain they would dole out. It might even be a relief.

He yanked the hat down on his head and adjusted the brim. "I'll be fine. Hydra tried to kill me a few times already. It never seems to work out for them. Maybe I was a cat in a past life."

"Wait!" Mattress springs creaked as Becca jumped off the bed. She limped towards him at alarming speed, putting herself between him and the door. "Don't go. Please don't. They'll get you; I know they will. Or they'll come back for me. Or come back for me and then get you." Her chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath coming faster. Her eyes bulged.

Afraid she would get frantic, Steve soothed, "All right, I'm staying." She kept breathing like she was fit to have an asthma attack. "I'm staying right here. See? Look. I'm taking my jacket off." He shook off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. When her eyes darted up to his hat, it went the same way as his jacket.

He held out his arms to show he wasn't moving, but she must have read the gesture a different way because she threw herself against him in an embrace. His abdomen gave a painful throb, but he ignored it. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

Becca got upset when he stayed. She got upset if he tried to leave. He didn't know what to do. All he could think to hope for was that this press conference might make a difference.

* * *

Becca peered out the car window, wondering for the umpteenth time whether they were almost there. No paparazzi waited on the sidewalks, and since she hadn't a clue what this random-ass building looked like, she assumed they weren't.

This press conference had been called "last minute," so as not to give the remnants of Hydra an opportunity to crash or chance word slipping to the general public, which could cause a frenzy and thus security nightmare. However, Devika had been planning with Steve for days in advance.

Mostly when they met, Becca gave them the room and spent time elsewhere. With Ally, if she could manage it, because Ally was the one person besides Steve (sometimes) who wasn't treating her like she was made of glass. She apologized for getting her mixed up in everything, but Ally shrugged it off and joked about being "almost famous" now, for which Becca was very grateful.

Some of the time though, Becca lingered. She was curious. She had watched Steve talk to the press on TV, but she'd never seen the preparation that went into it. He and Devika went over the topics that would be covered in his speech, from S.H.I.E.L.D's collapse to the scandal. Steve drew up notes. They argued over them. There was quite a bit of "I know you're going to say this anyway, but…" and "I know it's your opinion, but…" and "Can't you just…" on Devika's part, while Steve listened patiently to her requests and still refused to budge. By day two, Devika was showing up with alcohol.

Becca caught the tail end of what sounded like the second or third round of a debate about whether or not Steve would be answering questions after his statement and got a surprise when Devika beckoned her over. She told Becca that it would look good if she attended the press conference as well in order to quell rumors of an imminent break up and show that "America's sweethearts" were as strong as ever. Steve told her she didn't have to go.

The idea of standing in front of all those video cameras and reporters made Becca nervous, but this could be a way for her to show Steve that she wasn't really mad at him. And to give a giant fuck you to Hydra. So she agreed.

Which was how Becca found herself squished in the middle of the backseat of a rental car driven by a police officer. She had put on the one nice dress she'd brought in her suitcase – which Natasha had returned, and boy had _that_ been a weirdly tense encounter between her and Steve – and covered up her bruises as best as she could. The swelling had gone down enough that she no longer looked like a cartoon, but nothing could be done about her blood-filled eye. She did take off her neck brace because she fucking hated that thing and no way was she wearing it on TV, so she had to be extra careful about how she moved. Her neck took every opportunity to remind her with a spiteful twinge just how much it was involved in almost every motion. She took a hand mirror out of her pocket and eyed the bandages and stitches on her throat. Gross. She touched up her lip gloss.

"Are you ready?" Steve asked beside her.

Becca jumped and glanced out the window. The seething mob of paparazzi had appeared. She swallowed and nodded, double-checking her face in the mirror. She looked horrible. Like a victim of abuse attempting to conceal her injuries and failing miserably.

"You don't have to come. I can go in with Devika, and I'm sure this officer will drive you back."

She tucked the mirror away. "No, I'm fine. It's just standing. You'll be doing all the hard work." She gave him a smile far more confident than how she was feeling.

Steve looked her over, his jaw tight with concern, but he didn't question her again.

The car rolled to a stop. Devika opened the door on the right, Steve the door on her left. The rapid clicking and flashing of cameras intensified as Steve stepped out. He leaned down offering his hand, which Becca took and gripped tight. She employed the method she'd perfected when wading through paparazzi: look at the ground, search for cracks in the sidewalk to block out the dizzying frenzy. Steve's arm wrapped around her shoulder, ever protective, and he guided her from the car to the front door.

Inside, the wall of noise turned muffled. Those reporters who had been allowed in had less incentive to harass them for a story, and most were already waiting in press conference room. Stragglers took half-hearted candid shots as Devika lead them around back, explaining that this building was sometimes used for police press conferences. Becca spotted several officers in plain view, which meant the conference was being as well protected as Devika had promised. So no need to worry about an attack, just the fifty or so reporters perched on the edge of their seats for another reason to drag her through the mud. She breathed in through her nose. Not all of them were bad. She'd met some nice reporters. Plus, most of the focus would be on Steve. They'd hardly notice she was there.

Devika produced bottles of water from her purse before disappearing to make sure everything was ready. While Steve drank from his, Becca kept hers closed. She had been drinking through a straw because she couldn't tilt her head back. Maybe she'd be able to tilt the bottle, but with her luck, she would spill water down the front of her dress. Headline: "Miss America Traumatized: Spills Water All Over." No thanks. The whole point of her coming was to look unaffected. And she was, mostly. Kind of. She looked down at the bottle and wished she had a straw. Her mouth had gone dry.

"It's all right if you're nervous," Steve comforted. "First time I got in front of a crowd, I thought I'd come down with a fever. I was sweating like you wouldn't believe."

He had seemed so confident talking to the press before that it was hard to imagine he'd ever been nervous. "You sure it wasn't the tights?" she asked.

The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. "That might've been a part of it." He capped his water and touched her shoulder. "You're not gonna have to talk. All you have to do is stand behind me and look beautiful."

Becca held back a groan. "Great. So… I'm screwed."

" _So_ all you have to do is stand behind me."

For once, she didn't feel like rolling her eyes at his sappy one-liners. She leaned gently against his chest and responded with one of her own. "I always do."

With a clack of heels, Devika interrupted what might've turned into a much needed ray of warmth in the tumultuous shitstorm that had engulfed their relationship over the week. Becca refrained from insisting that the reporters could wait an extra ten seconds for Captain America. There would be time for cuddling and soft words later. They'd been skirting around each other on tip-toes and suffering in silence with the occasional thunder clap for too long already, a fairly impressive feat considering they'd been staying in the same room. The gap had to be crossed somehow before it became a chasm with no possibility at building a bridge, an issue for which she was as responsible as Steve was. If NA had taught her anything, it was that problems couldn't be solved in isolation. Which was how she'd been attempting to work through her interactions with Hydra so for. Or, maybe avoiding more than working on them. Okay, first things first. Making it through the press conference.

The room Devika lead them into was the plain kind one would expect in watching a press conference on TV – small stage, podium, curtains lining the back of the stage. What you never got to see on TV were the fifty or so reporters arraigned in neat rows, the video cameras lining the back of the room, and, most disconcertingly, the photographers crouched in front of the stage like a swarm of hungry animals waiting to leap at the first signs of weakness. When cameras clicked, their lights flashing, the photographers' movement became strange and stilted as they seemed to disappear and reappear on opposite sides of the stage.

Steve gave her upper arm a light squeeze and let go to approach the podium. Becca barely stopped from grabbing hand in a surge of panic, the childish urge to say, "Wait for me!" and run up alongside him quashed. She folded her hands in front of her and adopted an attentive expression as she stared at the back of his head and allowed the rest of the room to slide out of focus.

"Thanks for coming," Steve began, his voice carrying throughout the room. "I know you've been hearing a lot about what happened leading up to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse, so I thought I'd start there…"

He wasn't the best public speaker in the world. Not like those people would could draw an audience in with their voice alone, make them lean forward or pull up a wellspring of emotion with a forceful gesture or heart-felt plea. But he didn't stumble over his words or say "um" a lot or mumble. Neither was his speech a monotone wash. He spoke with honesty and his heart on his sleeve, unlike some celebrities.

What with the camera flashes dying down and all the attention on Steve as he presented his opinions on S.H.I.E.L.D. being permanently dismantled, it turned out to be pretty easy to ignore that she was at a press conference. Until he brought up the videos.

"Now there are a few things I'd still like to address. One being the series of videos Hydra put out of Becca. I didn't…"

His grip on the podium tightened as he faltered for the first time. In the pause, Becca heard a rustle like wind blowing through the room. She peeked at the reporters and saw a couple glancing in her direction. The photographers lifted their cameras, reporters held their pens and iPads at the ready.

"… I didn't know about them until afterwards. I know I should've. There aren't enough words to say how sorry I am." He looked over his shoulder at her. "But I promise that everyone involved will be found and spend the rest of their lives locked up for what they did."

The cameras went crazy trying to catch her reaction, but Becca didn't know how to react. She would feel safer knowing that the people responsible for making the videos couldn't get to her anymore. She'd already had a recurring nightmare, although it featured the men who had been in the room with her, and they were dead. On the other hand, she didn't want Steve to go on a revenge bender. Revenge never led anywhere good, and besides, he had promised to be around more. Eventually, he would go off and be busy superheroing, but she'd thought she would have him to herself for a little while at least.

But, conscious of the cameras, she managed a smile and a nod.

Steve turned back to the room. "Shortly after the last video was released, a number of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files were loaded onto the Internet, including surveillance on both mine and Becca's apartments." She didn't need to have a front row seat to know he had on his I'm-not-mad-I'm-just-disappointed face. "I'm not too sure why we were under surveillance, but I would ask that people respect our privacy and not listen to these recordings." He went off on a bit of a rant about the government's responsibility to its citizens, which included mentions of Watergate and constitutional rights that surely had all the die-hard Cap's Commandos waving their flags but made Becca ready to take a nap.

Finally, Steve wound down and started taking questions. One reporter asked if they planned on suing S.H.I.E.L.D. Another wanted to know how Steve felt about knowing that Hydra hadn't been destroyed with Red Skull.

At this point, Becca was half listening while wondering what they were going to do after this press conference. They hadn't really planned past staying at the hotel. Steve didn't have an apartment anymore, not a safe one, and hers wasn't either so… now what? Fuck. She should talk to Ally about this. Had Ally watched the whole live part of the press conference? Probably. She must have been parked in front of the TV with her parents and Seth. Having lunch. Ugh, she was starving. She had been too nervous to eat much for breakfast.

"I have a question for Ms. Stroud."

Becca looked around at the sound of her name. Everyone stared back at her, so it took some searching to figure out who had spoken. A reporter three rows back waggled his pen to attract her attention. Her stomach clenched. She wasn't supposed to be asked questions. Her gaze flicked to Steve, who eyed her steadily with an unspoken question of his own. Did she want to answer the question or should he refuse on her behalf? Well, she didn't _want_ to answer any questions, but it was going to look awkward if she shook her head. Everyone might think she was afraid or had something to hide.

She stepped forward. Just pretend it's like a big party with a bunch of curious strangers. She did fine with strangers. It was the having her words and face in print that made her nervous.

Steve moved aside to give her the podium. He had left his mostly empty water bottle sitting on the edge. She nudged it out of the way so she didn't knock it over or anything and leaned into the mic, blinking away the spots that appeared from the bright camera lights.

"Uh, hi."

Wow. Great. So professional sounding. Shit, was she smiling? She fixed on a smile, not sure if it was making her look better or worse.

The reporter gave no indication, diving right into his question. "Ms. Stroud, in the surveillance audio, you admitted to illegally obtaining prescription medication. Do you think that S.H.I.E.L.D. was right to cover up your addiction? Do you feel that, as Captain Roger's girlfriend, you should be afforded special privileges in order to maintain his image as a reflection of the American ideal?"

"Well…" Of course she would get a loaded question. It couldn't have been some sexist, but easier question about where she'd bought her dress. She jumped when Steve touched her waist. He hadn't put an arm around her. It felt more like he was getting ready to pull her behind him. No way would she be caught dead cowering behind Steve in front of a room full of people.

"No," Becca replied. "I don't think that I should get special treatment. Or anyone should, for that matter. But I think that what's important is that I got help. I joined Narcotics Anonymous, and I've been clean for almost twenty months. I've also done some work with them in advertising campaigns, and I raised money with the People Like Me marathon. So basically, I've done rehab and community service, which is probably what would've happened if I went to court so… Yeah.

"I don't, um, I don't think anyone should have to make their struggle with addiction something public or even necessarily go to court for it. I've met a lot of people who were scared to get help because they didn't want to be put in jail or couldn't afford the fines. Really the laws are much too harsh, and I think it's kinda blaming the victim the way things are. If we could put the money that goes towards keeping addicts in jail towards better rehab programs and drug education, that seems more important."

Whether or not she'd answer the question, Becca wasn't entirely sure, but she did know she was rambling and needed to wrap this up. "So, um, maybe issues like that should be getting more coverage instead of headlines about me being an addict, which I know a lot of people already guessed after I ran that marathon."

She glanced at Steve who gave her an approving nod. Thank god. She'd managed to navigate her way through the question.

Then, a bunch more hands shot up. Becca sighed. She should've expected this. She had rarely ever spoken to a reporter, and now they all had their chance. After considering the group, she picked a friendly-looking younger woman towards the back.

"What was going through you mind when Hydra was making those videos?"

"Um… help?"

Everyone laughed like she had made a joke, but it wasn't a joke. Becca shrank away, the corners of her eyes instantly and embarrassingly pricking with tears. What stopped her was Steve placing his hand over hers on the podium. He knew she wasn't joking; she could tell. Mostly because he looked like he was gearing up to blow a fuse at everyone for laughing. Oddly enough, his anger grounded her.

"I was nervous, obviously," she continued. "At least they told me exactly what they were going to do. I think not knowing would've been worse. I knew Steve must not have seen the videos when he didn't come right away, but I was sure he'd come eventually."

Becca wasn't certain why she lied. It sort of popped out. And she couldn't seem to stop either. "That's what I kept telling myself, you know. He'll get you out. It's what kept me going." The reporters were eating it up, nodding like, of course that's how it would've gone. "He's my hero, but I'm very grateful to the team that did rescue me. They're all heroes, too."

She had lied to the press. After her admiration of Steve for being honest and her disapproval for how the media didn't have enough honest people, she had lied. To Steve, to everyone. The lie wouldn't hurt anyone, but it left her with a bad taste. Was that the kind of person she was? The kind who spouted out dewy-eyed admiration to paint a better picture of a traumatic situation?

Realizing that hands had once again been raised, she hurriedly pointed to a report right up in front.

"Do you feel that your dominant role in the bedroom carries into other aspects of your relationship with Captain Rogers?"

Becca blinked at him, speechless. Having someone talk so casually about her sex life didn't seem real, and she had never thought to compare sex to the rest of her relationship with Steve. Sex was a part of their relationship, yeah, but what they did in the bedroom didn't really affect everything else. Did it? She thought of how they had fallen apart after her attempt to give him a hand job hadn't worked out.

"… No?"

"You don't sound sure," the reporter noted.

Her stomach roiled with nerves. She had to be deliberate or they'd pick her apart. "No," she answered with more force. "I think we try to keep things balanced." That sounded like a good answer. She glanced at Steve. He looked tense.

The next reporter questioned, "Do you think that your roles as Captain and Miss America have led you to experiment with alterative sexual fantasies behind closed doors?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. "I mean, I don't – I don't know if we've really done anything that 'alternative.'"

"You don't consider domination or bondage to be alternative?"

Steve's hand tightened in a vice grip. Meanwhile, Becca felt like crouching behind the podium and disappearing. She had only tied him up one time, but everyone knew about it. Not a single face looked surprised or indignant on her behalf for having to answer the question.

"Not really, no. Um. I mean, I know maybe it's not the basics, but I think that there are a lot of people out there who are also into… what we're into."

Becca looked away in the hopes that she could move onto a different topic, but the reporter asked, "Captain Rogers, do you agree?"

She had this sudden, horrible idea that Steve wouldn't back her up, but he stated, "Yeah, I agree with everything Becca said."

"Then let me rephrase the question," the reporter persisted. "Do you think that your role as Captain America has led you to seek out a more submissive role elsewhere? Or maybe the idea of a submissive role attracted you because it was so different from what was accepted when you were growing up?"

"I think I know what I like, and there's no rhyme or reason for it," Steve replied. His tone would sound flat to the unfamiliar ear, but Becca recognized the strained quality that meant he was on the verge of a tirade. Although it would be embarrassing, she rather felt like she could slink behind him and let him explode. "I'll take one more question."

Almost every hand went up. He surveyed the reporters carefully, while she wished he would hurry up and get this over with, and chose a younger man sitting off to the side.

"Do you have anything to say to the people who have suggested you aren't, and I'm quoting here, 'man enough' to be Captain America any longer in light of your preferences in the bedroom?"

Steve went unnaturally still. Here it comes. She braced herself.

"Yeah, I've got something to say." He leaned into the mic, unintentionally – or maybe intentionally – nudging her aside. "A part of our government has collapsed. There is a terrorist organization out there that is responsible for the deaths of eighty-seven good agents as well as a number of civilians in the past week alone. But somehow what's been getting talked about the most seems to be what Becca and I have been doing in our private lives. So maybe before we start worrying about whether I'm 'man enough' to be Captain America, we should take a hard look at what's happening in America."

He set his jaw, gripping one side of the podium. "But since you asked, I think it's a load of bull. What goes on when Becca and I… you know, it doesn't make me less of a man. It doesn't make her more of a woman. It doesn't make us anything, except happy, which I think is the point."

He took a breath like he was winding up for more, but Devika jumped in with excuses about time and places to be. She practically butt-bumped them away from the podium.

In the back room, Steve wrapped an arm around Becca's waist and commented, "I think that went all right."

"That was all right?" she asked disbelievingly. "They asked about our sex life and pissed you off bad enough that Devika stepped in."

"Well, I didn't like some of the questions. But believe it or not, that's mostly how these things tend to end."

"Mmm." She wasn't sure she'd ever live down the humiliation of being asked about her supposedly alternative sex life. At least the question part hadn't been live on TV, but she could only imagine how the reporters would describe her. And she was still troubled by the lie that had sprung so easily from her lips. "I just really don't ever want to do that again."

He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "Then you won't have to."

"Good," she sighed. Her stomach rumbled. At least it hadn't started up on stage. That would've been one more embarrassment to add to the pile. "You up for lunch?"

Devika must have overheard the last part because as she strode into the room she asserted, "Steve's buying."

When Becca looked at Steve with raised eyebrows, he explained, "We made a deal. I say what I want, and then pay for food plus as many drinks as 'hot button issues' I bring up. Which was…"

"Three."

"That's down from last time."

"By one," Devika snorted. "I'd prefer zero."

"You can quit any time."

"I work better under stress."

Becca waved her hands. "Okay, less talk, more walk. I'm turning into a skeleton over here."

"Well, we can't have that." Steve took her hand. "Can't still be your hero if I let you starve."

"Still talkin', not walkin'," Becca pointed out, tugging him forwards. But her appetite had evaporated. Should she tell him the truth, that there had come a point during her torture when she had given up on him? But as she watched him talking animatedly with Devika, looking self-assured for the first time in days, she knew she couldn't. Not now.

They went to an Italian restaurant, where she ate a couple spoonfuls of a bowl of Zuppa Toscana. Her neck ached from all the moving she'd been doing. She should be obsessing over the sex-related questions, but for some reason she kept coming back to that lie. Why had she lied? It had come out without hesitation at a point where she hadn't even had to lie. She could've said that she was nervous and left it at that.

Eventually, she pushed the bowl over to Steve, whose brow furrowed with concern, but he ate the rest.

She knew she couldn't talk to him, so when they arrived back at the hotel, she excused herself and fled to the one person she could talk to. Ally ushered her into her hotel room, and they sprawled out on her bed. But when faced with her best friend, Becca found out she still couldn't admit to the lie. It made her feel awful. She instead she explained how terrible the press conference had been, and confided that her and Steve had been weird with each other lately.

"I don't feel like me," Becca explained, rubbing the neck brace she had put back on before ducking out the door. "I don't know. I think it's being here in the place where… everything happened. We just need to get away. I feel like if I went with Steve somewhere for awhile. But not like – I mean, I don't want a cabin tucked away somewhere where we have nothing to do but talk. We'll have to do that eventually, but right now we need to _do_ something together. Something that will clear our heads."

"Hmm." Ally rolled over onto her back, folding her hands over her stomach. Becca let her think, until Ally gave her a quick glance before looking away.

"What?"

"I didn't say anything."

"You looked at me." Ally made a show of looking at her with rounded eyes. Becca folded her arms. "You had an idea."

"My last idea was for you to come to D.C.," Ally pointed out.

"Come on. Just tell me."

"Actually, it's something I've been thinking of bringing up for a while, but I wasn't sure with you and Steve now. Plus, Steve was gone so much that –"

She was going to go on forever at this rate. "Ally!"

"Okay, okay. Keep your panties on." Ally sat up. "So you know how I've been staying over Danny's for most of this month? _Well_ , our lease is up soon, and I was thinking that maybe you might want to go apartment hunting with Steve."

Oh my god. It was perfect. This could solve so many problems. Steve couldn't go back to his apartment because Hydra knew where it was. She probably shouldn't go back to her apartment because Hydra might know where it was. Apartment hunting would keep them occupied for a while, and taking this next step in their relationship might help patch it up.

"But I'm not kicking you out if you're not ready for that kind of commitment," Ally went on. "Danny hates his apartment anyway. We could find another two bedroom."

Becca smiled. "No, it's a great idea. I'll run it by Steve."

Then, she thought about how awkward it had been for them in their hotel room. Maybe he wouldn't want to get an apartment with her. She chewed her lip. But maybe he would. She wasn't sure. Oh, what the hell. All she could do was try. Things could only get better.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Credit to the New England Journal of Medicine for their study on the effects of watching news coverage during 9/11. See you next week when things are definitely not going to get better.**


	8. MIA

He had agreed, much to Becca's relief.

At first when she had asked Steve about getting a place together while they were packing up his apartment, he had given her this surprised look. Then, he hadn't said anything for a while. It got to the point where she nearly blurted out that never mind, it was totally fine. Clearly he was searching for a way to let her down gently. It was stupid to think he would want to live with her when sharing a hotel room this week had been such a disaster.

But finally he had given her a smile – the big, dopey, ridiculously adorable smile that made rare appearances on occasions like when she had first said "I love you" and when he'd caught her at 3am on his birthday attempting to make surprise pancakes while half awake. That smile was infectious, erasing her nerves and flooding her chest with warmth. He had told her he liked the idea a lot, and there had been an extra bounce in her heels when she hopped up onto her toes for a kiss.

A new apartment would mean a new start, and they needed a new start.

Most of the apartment was packed by the time Sam showed up with the truck. He was moving in with a friend until he too found a new place, since Hydra had torn through his house. They had decided to split the cost of a truck and storage until everything got sorted. After consulting with her, Steve had invited Sam to come along with them for a week or two – they were still debating about where to go exactly – but he declined, confiding he felt more useful if he continued running his veteran's support group, which he had opened up to ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

Becca also happened to know that Steve had asked him to try and find some leads on where Bucky might have gone. She hadn't been eavesdropping exactly, not on purpose, but when she was in the bathroom and heard the volume of their voices drop, it would have been impossible _not_ to listen in.

Finding Bucky was important to Steve, but if he had left her to chase after his friend right now, she would've been pissed. And their already unstable relationship might have gone completely sideways. From what she'd overheard, Steve knew it too and made the right choice. Once the crazy had died down, then she would support him in his search.

While Steve and Sam loaded boxes into the truck, Becca got started cooking up all the foodstuffs that hadn't spoiled and wasn't in a can. Lunch got out of hand, mostly because making six dishes at once was not a good idea. Steve poked his head in and asked if she needed another set of hands, but she shooed him off, determined she could get this under control. But when Sam poked his head in fifteen minutes later and asked, her frazzled "um… um…" had been enough that he took the pan she had been holding over the crowded stove and asked what she needed.

Once everything really was under control, Becca realized that Steve had been making trips outside by himself and got nervous. Yes, there were police maintaining a perimeter. Yes, they had evacuated the area, so anyone who showed up would stick out. And yes, Steve was smart, vigilant, well-trained, etc., etc. But all it took was a single Hydra agent with a gun and bang, no more Steve. Her skin crawled as she waited for him to come back up.

At the sound of his footsteps in the entryway, she rushed out to greet him. "Hey. Lunch is going to be done in ten, fifteen minutes. Why don't you take a break?"

Steve picked up a stack of three boxes as though they were filled with nothing but packing peanuts. "I'm almost done."

"Are you sure? There's no rush."

"Well, we do still have to pack up the dishes after lunch, get this truck over to Sam's, pack up his house, and get to the storage place before it closes." He grinned as he headed out the door. "I suppose I could just pick up Sam's house and dump everything into the truck. Might even be a selling point."

Struggling to maintain an air of calm, she offered, "How about I help you?" Not that she would be much help if Hydra attacked. "Or Sam could."

"I've got it."

"Steve!" The outburst startled both of them. Steve spun around, the boxes bobbling like he was about to drop them. He looked her over with concern.

Becca felt a blush rising up to her cheeks. Why was she yelling? He had gone to the truck a whole bunch of times already without a problem, and here she was freaking out. Everything had been going so well today. She wouldn't ruin it by insisting he couldn't go down to the sidewalk by himself. That sounded so paranoid.

"Just, um, be careful, okay?"

Understanding dawned in Steve's eyes, and some of the weight that had lifted from his shoulders over the day settled back on. God, why had she opened her freaking mouth? "I'll finish up with Sam after lunch."

"No, no. It's okay." When he didn't move, she strode forward and nudged him towards the stairs. "Go on. Like you said, you're almost done."

"It's fine if I wait."

"No, you might as well use those muscles while you can. The only thing you're going to be lifting for a while is your suitcase, unless we book a hotel where they don't mind you bench pressing their furniture."

Steve hovered uncertainly at the top of the stairs, but he did go down. She resisted the urge to go after him or check if she could see the truck from one of the windows. Instead, she returned to the kitchen and listened for returning footsteps and the scrape of boxes being lifted from the floor.

The knot in her stomach eased a little when she heard him come back, and a little more on each trip that followed. It helped that Steve passed by the kitchen each time. He tried to make it seem like the passes had to do with getting boxes, but it took only two passes for her to notice that the amount of boxes in his arms didn't change as he came in and went back out. Clearly he was picking up boxes next to the door, walking by the kitchen entrance, and doing an about face. Maybe it was for the best he could no longer work for .E.L.D. because he really was not cut out to be a secret agent.

Since the kitchen table and chairs had already been packed, Becca set plates on the floor, which worked out because the six dishes wouldn't have fit on the table. She dug potholders out of an open box, and Sam set the various pots, pans, and plates on top of them.

"Hope you're hungry," he said as they surveyed the feast from their spots on the floor.

She sighed. If only she could eat like a real person. Her throat could not heal fast enough. "I'll probably stick to the mashed potatoes and gravy. Maybe some noodles. But don't worry, whatever we don't eat, Steve will. He eats like a horse. And also has a major vendetta against wasting food."

"Sounds serious."

"Oh, it is. One time I went to dump my pizza crusts into the trash." She vividly remembered Steve's look of disapproval as he took the crusts from her plate. "You would've thought I'd done it in front of starving children."

Sam shook his head. "I don't blame him. Crusts are the best part."

"Tch. If crusts were the best part, pizza would be ninety-percent crust instead of the other way around."

"Nah 'cause then it'd be too much of a good thing."

"Crusts are pizza handles." Becca wrinkled her nose. Not only did crusts taste gross, but most crusts were so hard that biting into it was like chewing stale bread. Even the word "crust" sounded nasty. "That's all they're good for."

"Agree to disagree," Sam laughed.

She considered scooping out some mashed potatoes, but Sam appeared to be holding off on filling his plate until Steve came back. So she waited. And waited. And waited. Listening for the returning footsteps that never came until her stomach had tangled itself back up into a knot. She couldn't remember how long it had been since he made a pass. Two minutes? Ten? Too long, that was for sure.

The metallic taste of fear, so similar to blood, flooded her mouth. She got to her feet, and Sam rose as well.

"He's probably having trouble with the truck door or something," Sam offered, but she didn't buy that, and she didn't think Sam did either. "It got a little stuck when I opened it. I'll go check."

Becca made no argument. She didn't bother answering at all. She turned and walked out of the kitchen. The living room had no more boxes stacked on the floor. Neither did the hallway. This would have been Steve's last trip. Her pace quickened. She should have insisted that he stay inside. She should have trusted her instincts. Stupid, stupid. She hurtled down the stairs. Her socks caught the edge of a stair, and she slid, catching herself on the banister as Sam grabbed her. Still, she continued taking the stairs at a run.

In the lobby, Sam maneuvered in front of her and threw out an arm to stop her flying out the door. "We take this slow, all right? It'll only take an extra second."

Fuck that. She strained against his arm, peering through the door, both convinced and terrified that Steve would be sprawled lifeless on the sidewalk. No sign of him and all she could see was the front half of the moving truck.

Sam warned, "If he sees you're in danger that could distract him."

"I don't –" Becca bit her bottom lip and snorted. "Fine."

She slunk along behind Sam as he approached the front door from the right side. Still no Steve, but she did spot a cop across the street, standing at the corner of an intersection. His arms were folded casually, fingers tapping out a beat only he could hear; he looked bored. Good thing or bad? Had to be good right? If something had happened, all of the cops keeping this block clear would have converged.

"Look," she said, pointing.

Sam nodded. "I see him." He opened the front door with deliberate slowness anyway, but Becca rushed around him and headed for the back of the truck.

The hatch was open, boxes stacked in orderly piles. No Steve. She leaned on the bed, stretching on tip-toe and rocking from side to side to see around the stacks.

"Steve?"

No answer. Maybe he had gotten in the front and happened to duck down for a few seconds. She rushed to the front and peered through the window, but the seat was empty. She looked up and down the street. Three cops stood visible. Two blocks down each way people walked past road barriers where a couple of hopeful paparazzi lingered. None of the people had the right clothing, height, or anything to be Steve, and if he had gone by the paparazzi, they wouldn't be hanging around.

Heart racing, Becca ran to meet up with Sam who had approached the police officer she'd originally spotted.

"Sure," the cop was saying. "He went down that way." He nodded down the empty street.

Incredulously, Becca asked, "And you didn't think it weird that he just wandered off down the street?"

The cop shrugged. "Said he wanted to check something out. I offered to go with him, but he said no. Figured Captain America can take care of himself."

Un-fucking-believable. These cops had two jobs. One, make sure the area stayed on lockdown until they cleared Steve's apartment. And two, make sure Steve had backup in case Hydra got any ideas. She didn't understand how in the hell this cop, or any of the cops, thought it was okay for Steve to go meandering down the sidewalk without suit or shield where he could get picked off by a Hydra sniper.

"Are you kidding me right now?!" she snapped.

Sam raised a placating hand. "How long ago?"

The cop pursed his lips speculatively. "Couldn't have been more than a few minutes."

"And he went down this street here?"

"Down one and took a left." The cop straightened up suddenly alert, but Becca didn't have time for this idiot. She took off down the street as he asked, "Is there a problem?"

Steve had to be right around the corner. He must have glimpsed something suspicious and gone to see for himself. He was so freaking reckless, and while his self-sacrificing attitude was part of why she loved him, it was also part of the reason why he made her want to tear her hair out sometimes. She was going to seriously kick his ass for this.

Yet, with each slap of her feet on the hard ground, fear loomed larger than anger. Fear that he wouldn't be there. That Hydra had got him.

She rounded the corner and crashed into someone's chest, bouncing back a step.

Another cop. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"I…" Becca leaned around the cop. This street too was empty. "Have you seen Steve?"

The cop's forehead furrowed. "Captain Rogers? Yeah, went that way a minute ago."

"Thank you." She ran down the street, Sam keeping pace beside her.

They met up with another cop, who pointed them to a barrier, this one devoid of paparazzi. There, a fourth cop admitted that she had seen Steve walk away. She too gave the excuse that he had wanted to check up on something and had declined assistance. Becca could've screamed at the incompetence of the D.C. police.

Instead, she screamed, "Steve! Steve!" Her throat burned, adding a pained, high pitch to her screams. If he was in hearing range, he would come running. "Steve!"

Heads whipped around. Pedestrians pointed and muttered. One person took out their phone, aiming it in her direction. Becca got three steps before Sam pulled her back.

"I know you're worried, but calling like that isn't gonna help. I'll go looking. You round up the police and let them know what's going on."

After a small debate with herself, she agreed with his plan. If something had happened, they needed to get on top of it ASAP. She grabbed the cop and told her that Steve was missing. Together, they started getting the others.

During the round-up, Becca spotted the paparazzi and got an idea.

"You want a story?" she asked them. All cameras trained on her, phones and microphones lifted. She was too furious over the lapse of police competency and too anxious over Steve's disappearance to feel anxious at the media attention. "Captain America is missing. He went that way a few minutes ago and apparently that's the last anyone saw. I want the police on this, the FBI, and the rest of the Avengers right freaking now."

She didn't stick around to let them ask questions, so that they'd scramble all over each other to get the news in first, assuring that the word got spread right away. The cop who had been walking with her looked disgruntled at her choice to interact with the paparazzi, but at the moment, she didn't give a flying fuck. All that mattered was finding Steve as fast as possible.

In the distance, sirens wailed. More police or some other kind of government agency members seemed to have appeared suddenly from hiding locations like a swarm of ants rising from their flooded hill.

The cops tried to get her to go to the station, but when Becca refused, she was escorted back inside the apartment where she answered questions about every minute detail of the day, from the expected inquires like "Did you notice Captain Rogers acting oddly when he went down to the truck?" to the unexpected like "What kind of tape did you use to close up the boxes?" As she replied, her gaze was continuously drawn to the meal set out on the floor, abandoned and growing cold. Her lungs seemed to seize up every time she looked at Steve's empty plate.

They should have been sitting there having lunch. She might have given Steve a nudge for some dry remark while Sam chuckled. Or she might have reached over and held his hand. It was the one kind of PDA he didn't seem to mind so much.

But would she really have reached for his hand? More likely they would have kept subtly apart, that awkwardness which had plagued their relationship since she had come to D.C. sitting squarely between them. Although they had agreed to look for a place together, the commitment hadn't solved all their problems. Here she went again, letting regret halo the never-to-be moment in a rosy glow. Had her life gone to such shit that she was not only lying to the press, but herself as well?

"Ms. Stroud?"

"Hmm?" Becca snapped to attention. She glanced at the mouth of the hallway, but as Steve had not appeared in it, she looked to Officer Peters, who had been leading the questioning. "Sorry, what'd you ask me?"

"I asked how you and Captain Rogers have been getting on. I know it's been a difficult week."

"Oh, yeah. It's been rough, but we'll get through it."

Officer Peters nodded. "I saw the videos. Kept thinking Captain America was gonna show up to rescue you. I'll admit I was a little angry for you when he didn't. Would've been a bit little anyway if it was me."

She rubbed a hand on her pants, swallowing shame as she recalled her outburst in the shower. "Well…" Only then the pieces clicked together as to what the cop was implying. "You don't actually think I had anything to do with this?"

"No, but we're required to follow all potential leads."

Which meant that yes, she was a suspect. Hydra had kidnapped her, tortured her, sent Bucky after Steve, and now, in all likelihood, had kidnapped and possibly killed him and they _actually_ thought she could have anything to do with this? White fury blurred the corners of her vision.

"You should be out there doing something instead of accusing me of…" She waved her arms wildly, unable to find the words. "Why aren't you doing something?" She found herself suddenly on her feet, bellowing at the two cops and one Special Forces officer in the apartment. "Captain fucking America might be dead and you're just standing here! Don't you care?!"

"Of course we care," Officer Peters placated with irritating calmness.

"Obviously not enough or you'd be out there looking for him!" Screw this. Screw all of this. She was going to find Steve herself.

Becca grabbed her purse off the table beside the couch and marched for the door.

Officer Peters and his partner followed behind. "We're doing all we can, but it would be best if you stay here. Or we can take you down to the station if you would be more comfortable waiting there."

She jammed her feet into her shoes and snarled, "Fuck you." She descended the stairs, wiping away angry tears. Steve couldn't be dead, not yet. She wouldn't let herself believe that. If Hydra had wanted to kill him, they would have shot him right in front of the building. It wasn't like they needed to worry about hiding like they had when the group of agents had surrounded him, Sam, and Natasha while news helicopters filmed the whole incident.

Only once she was standing in front of the apartment building did Becca realize she had no idea where to start. She didn't know what ground had been covered already or who was in charge or anything of use really. Her cell phone had been one of two items, along with her laptop, that had not been in her suitcase when Natasha returned it, so she couldn't call Sam. Not that she had his number in the first place.

This feeling of utter uselessness rose up, threatening to drown her, send her screaming and crying to her knees. It might have overwhelmed her if she hadn't heard a commotion and gone towards it.

Officer Peters made to keep her back while his partner headed for the noise with her gun drawn, but Becca refused to be held. Her feet pounded on the pavement, each thud the same loud pulse as her heart. She wanted it to be Steve, and yet she was afraid. Before turning the corner, she paused to take in a breath.

The commotion had stemmed from the other end of a long street. A cop had his gun out with Officer Peters' partner coming up steadily from behind. Natasha stood in the center of the street with her arms up in a gesture of peace.

Becca was hugely relieved to see her. She would feel better knowing that someone with Natasha's training and smarts was helping out with finding Steve.

"Natasha!" she called with a wave. "Guys, put your guns down! That's Black Widow!" Natasha nodded in greeting, and the officers, after some hesitation, lowered their guns. Becca blew past them, panting as she came up in front of Natasha. "I'm so glad you're…" She choked as Natasha hugged her, completely taken by surprised. Never in a million, billion years would she have even imagined seeing Natasha hug anyone, much less her. "…here?"

"I came as soon as I heard. I was worried about you," Natasha replied, and then lowered her voice. "I'm getting you outta here."

Okay, this made slightly more sense than a hug. Slightly. "Thanks for coming." Becca returned the hug and turned her head so her mouth wouldn't be visible as she lowered her voice as well. "You know something?"

"I'll explain after." Natasha let go of her and faced the cops. "I found something that might help you tracking down Rogers." She reached into her pocket, searching.

Obviously, Becca knew better than to get close. She backed up as nonchalantly as she could while the cops moved forward in curiosity.

So, Steve had told her that Natasha could kick some serious ass, and Becca had believed him. But seeing was something else all together. She moved like a super-bendy, super-fast action movie heroine, disarming the cops in the blink of an eye, kicking, punching, and using some kind of taser-like thing she pulled from god-knew where.

Becca could hardly follow the fight. It was over in less than a minute, with all three cops unconscious on the ground. "Damn." And she had been proud of herself for winning one round of a fight in her Keysi training class. After ten minutes. And her opponent might have been seventeen. But a strong seventeen.

"This way," Natasha instructed, leading her down the street.

She trailed behind without question. Although, thinking about it now, she wondered how Natasha had gotten past the barriers and patrols. It wasn't so much that she doubted whether an entrance or escape could be pulled off with ease by Natasha, but rather she doubted whether she would be able to pull off the same feat.

Natasha stopped and crouched in the middle of the street. She pulled open a manhole cover.

As she looked down at the ladder leading into darkness, a chill gusted along Becca's spine. In her mind she heard the screech of the Chitauri and her own enraged scream. She shivered. But when Natasha indicated that she should go do down, she didn't hesitate. Ugh, the smell was even worse than she remembered.

Natasha dropped onto the ladder, yanking the manhole cover back into place so that only thin rays of light peeked around the eclipse of the cover. Becca hugged her chest to keep the panic at bay. She hated sewers. Natasha's feet hit the ground with a wet clop. Some fabric rustling later and the screen of a phone illuminated her face. Becca moved towards her as she turned on the flashlight app.

"So what –"

But Natasha shook her head. "Not yet," she whispered. "They were running patrols down here. Keep quiet and follow me."

Becca gave a nod, which was more like a weird jerk with her neck brace, and stemmed the many, many questions she had. She moved as close she could to Natasha without tripping over her, glancing back only once to the faint outline of the manhole cover. She would have to put in a call so they wouldn't start looking for her instead of Steve. God, he'd better be okay or she would never ever forgive herself. Why hadn't she made him stay?

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs, Steve stopped and looked up. Maybe he should go back and stay with Becca. She had seemed so worried about him going outside on his own, and the memory of her in a frenzy about him trying to leave the hotel was still fresh. But she had ended up insisting he could get these last boxes into the truck. It would only take fifteen minutes, and he would be back in the apartment eating all the delicious smelling food she and Sam had cooked up. Still, he should reassure her, but without making it obvious or she would get miffed with him.

He came up with the idea of walking past the kitchen whenever he went to get boxes, which he was pretty proud of. He bet Becca hardly noticed, just getting enough of a glimpse to be put at ease.

Before he knew it, all the boxes were loaded. Steve climbed into the back of the truck to maneuver some of the furniture and boxes further back so that there would be plenty of room for Sam's things.

Someone knocked on the metal siding. He turned and saw a police officer.

"Captain Rogers, would you mind coming with me?" the officer asked.

"Sure." Steve climbed out of the truck. "Something wrong?"

The officer shook his head, striding down the street at a fast clip. "Guess we'll see."

They passed another officer, who seemed to be paying them no attention. Whatever was going on, it couldn't have been anything big or Steve figured all the officers would be on alert.

The officer slowed as they approached a patrol car. He thought they might have to drive somewhere, so maybe it was something big after all. If they did have to drive though, he needed to go back and tell Sam and, most importantly, Becca where he was going and why.

He was about to say so, when the officer opened the rear door of the car. "Get on in." Steve glanced at the passenger seat. It was empty. A warning siren sounded off in his head. The backseat of a patrol car was where criminals went.

"Someone else coming too?" he asked, searching for a reason why the officer hadn't offered him that front seat.

"Yes."

And Steve spotted them. First, one out of the right corner of his vision, tall, lumbering. The other seemed to melt out of the wall of a neighboring apartment building. There was something in the set of their faces that told Steve he was in trouble. He widened his stance, grounding himself. He would take out this officer first, nab his gun in case he needed it. The patrol car would provide cover.

"Before you do whatever you're thinking of doing…" the officer warned. He reached for his belt, and Steve readied his fists, preparing for a swing, but the officer grabbed a radio. "Eight, give Captain Rogers a quick peek."

Steve followed the officer's gaze. From the top of an apartment building, he saw the barrel of a sniper rifle appear for a brief moment. His heart sank as he noted where it was pointed.

"How's it looking?"

The radio crackled. "I've got Stroud and Wilson in my sight. They haven't moved for the past few seconds. Ready to comply on your command."

He had already made his choice. Steve knew it even as he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of another officer to whom he could pass an unspoken signal.

"They're all ours," the officer informed him. "Or we've given them enough incentive not to talk." He raised his eyebrows. "You didn't think Hydra would limit itself to S.H.I.E.L.D. did you?"

"Well, cut off one head, two more take its place," Steve remarked. "So the D.C. police force and… Fox News?"

The officer smiled. "Get in the car, Captain."

Steve slid into the backseat of the patrol car. He allowed the tall officer to put him in thick wrist and ankle cuffs while the first officer held the radio up to his lips. The warning was unnecessary. Even a person without any experience in strategy or tactics would know there was no way for him to get free and stop the sniper from firing in time, not for a certainty. And he wouldn't risk Sam or Becca's life on anything but a certainty.

He had to huddle on the floor under a blanket while the tall officer and the officer with the radio put their feet on or near him, while the third one drove. Various scenarios played through his head, even when he tried to think of something else. Possible ways to get out of the car, to disarm them, to attract attention. None had certain outcomes.

Eventually, he was allowed up, and so squished into the center seat. They were clearly not worried about his knowing where they were headed. Steve didn't think they would be. He knew they planned on killing him. He wasn't too sure why they hadn't done it right there at the apartment, but considered that it would be easier for them to disappear if they shot him in the middle of nowhere.

Time raced at first, but gradually slowed in the monotonous silence. His wrists tingled from the tightness of the cuffs, and Steve shifted them as much as he could to get blood flowing. The officer with the radio – which he'd switched out for a phone – tensed initially, but soon loosed up when he realized Steve wasn't going to try anything. He looked out the window, judging by the sun that they must have been driving for four or five hours already.

Becca must be frantic. This was exactly what she had been afraid of. He regretted that he hadn't listened to her. And that they would never get that apartment together. And that his last words to her hadn't been saying how much he loved her. He regretted a lot, but at least he would know that this time he had saved her. It didn't make up for what he'd already put her through, but it was something.

They pulled off the highway, drove through two small towns and out into nothing. They turned onto a dirt road, which lead off onto what looked like a ranch, except there were no animals that Steve could see. He got out of the car when prompted. The officers lead him around back to what looked like a bomb shelter. They descended into the earth, although the temperature paradoxically rose.

There was a door at the bottom, thick and metal, with a large bolt and bar on the outside. Tension licked his every nerve. He had to wonder what someone had wanted to keep inside. Or perhaps they meant to lock him up here. While he would much rather a bullet to the head than starving to death, he knew there would be a lot of people out looking for him. All he would have to do was survive until they found him.

The room into which they entered was sterile, almost clinical. The walls were a muted yellow, the furniture – several chairs and a coffee table – black with no defining lines of use like it had been shipped direct from the factory to here.

A woman rose from one of the chairs. Steve guessed she was forty-five at a glance and around five foot three or four without heels. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray, but there had been no attempts to dye it. She had knotted it at the back of her head and it clung to her scalp with an immaculate neatness reflected in the room. Sharp green eyes inspected him with the faint outline circles that he had come to recognize as contact lenses.

"Captain Rogers, it's an honor to finally meet you. I'm Dr. Claudia Henson." She stuck out of a hand, which Steve ignored. He glanced around the room instead, getting his bearings. He now had a feeling they didn't mean to kill him, not right away in any case, and it never hurt to know your surroundings. She used the empty hand to indicate a chair. "Won't you sit?"

"I'd prefer to stand," Steve replied. "It was a long car ride, and once you get to be my age, it's a pain on the knees getting up and down."

When Dr. Henson smiled, some of the sharpness went out of her eyes, but with one decisive nod from her, two of the officers grabbed him and shoved him into a chair. She sat down in a chair opposite. A single, manicured fingernail tapped thoughtfully against her cheek.

"I'll be brief so we can get started. I was one of the leads on the Winter Soldier Project." His monitoring of the room abruptly focused onto her. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes did not have the perfected serum. You do. And now that I have repurposed some of the technology Peirce was keeping under lock and key, I can turn you into the perfect soldier."

Steve clenched his jaw, anger pulsing through him. He rebelled against the idea of becoming a mindless weapon for Hydra as Bucky had been. It seemed a violation of the worst kind. He could imagine what they would use him for, the murders, the fear they would spread. His being down to his soul recoiled, disgusted.

"For the hell of it, let's say I refuse," he said.

Dr. Henson frowned with genuine confusion. "This was already explained. If you prove to be difficult, I will have no choice but to remove those closest to you."

She was asking him to weigh Becca's life against those of countless other innocent people. Steve thought about what Becca would want. It wasn't too hard. He knew she would never ask him to become an assassin for Hydra just to save her life. She cared about other people. Hell, she had been upset over accidently shooting a Hydra agent when she was in trouble herself.

But if he did agree, it wasn't as though his situation would mirror Bucky's exactly. No one had been looking for Bucky, and from the way Dr. Henson was talking, it didn't sound like she meant to hide him. Furthermore, just because he agreed, didn't mean he couldn't fight mentally. Bucky had looked at him with recognition on the falling hellicarrier, proving that even after years and years, he hadn't lost all of himself. One look at Becca or the sound of her voice, and his memories would probably come rushing back.

And above all else, Steve knew that he just couldn't let her die.

"So I have your word that she'll be safe if I do this?" he checked. "And Sam?" The honor of a member of Hydra wasn't worth much, but having this promise might be a rope to cling onto as memories began to be taken from him.

Dr. Henson dipped her head. "You have my word."

He ground his teeth once and forced out the words, "All right."

"Wonderful." She stood from the chair, and Steve followed suit.

They went into a short hallway with several rooms. The one she brought them to had four Hydra agents gathered around a chair. It was the kind of chair one might expect from a dentist, only with a large contraption around the head and menacing-looking restraints.

Steve repressed the urge to fight his way out of the room because as he looked at the chair, he got a feeling that this was going to hurt a lot worse than getting injected with super solider serum.

He wasn't wrong.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **And so begins the middle third of this story. Get ready for some Hydra Steve.**


	9. Disappearing

Sunlight burst through the open manhole like a flashlight had been clicked on, and Becca squinted at the assault on her eyes. She waited for the spots of blindness to dissipate before climbing up after Natasha into an alley. She didn't know how long they'd been in the sewers, long enough at any rate for the smell to seep into her clothes. Her shoes and pants were definitely ruined, each squelching step causing her to gag in disgust. The only desire stronger than her urge to puke was finding out what had happened.

However, she became conscious of a homeless man hunkered against a wall, watching them. He might talk to Hydra or the police or the FBI, NSA, or whatever other three-letter government agency had been put on alert at her disappearance. Natasha took care of that, hopefully, by pressing some bills into the man's hand with a "you didn't see anything." He repeated back her words, and they put the man and the alley behind them.

Becca glanced around as they walked along a street with small stores jammed between apartment buildings, half expecting someone to have hidden themselves in plain sight and set up surveillance. They'd had to backtrack once in the sewers to avoid getting caught.

"Don't look," Natasha instructed with a bright smile. "Pretend we're having a good time."

"Sorry," Becca apologized reflexively and matched her smile. "So what's happening? Did you find Steve? Why'd we have to leave? Is the apartment still tapped?"

"I don't know where he is." It had been too much to hope for, everything working out so easily, but Becca's stomach sank all the same. "And I'm not sure about the apartment, but something wasn't right. I called Sam, and he told me how all the cops just let Rogers walk on by. I'd believe it if it was one of them, but all of them?"

She felt really stupid. It hadn't even occurred to her that any of the cops would be part of a larger conspiracy. She should have considered the possibility, what with S.H.I.E.L.D. being infiltrated, but the police force seemed so normal. Too normal and safe for grand conspiracy. She had been paranoid about everything but what was right in front of her nose.

"Makes sense," she admitted. "So what're we gonna do? Check to see who was there; find out if any of the cops disappear? Or I could go back and ask questions. You'd probably be better at it, but I don't think they'd appreciate you showing up after that ass-kicking."

"They only thing we're doing is getting you somewhere safe."

Her false smile dropped, forgotten. "What?! That's bullshit. I'm not getting left behind again. Uh-uh. No way. I can go talk to those cops or… or join the search party. They'll need a lot of people to search all of D.C. Um…" She thought about what else you were supposed to do when someone went missing. "Or I can – I can start up some kind of hotline. Put up fliers. Well, I guess fliers would be kinda pointless since everyone knows what he looks like. Then, I can… I can… I don't know. Do something."

Natasha pointed out, "Other people will do all that."

Becca huffed in exasperation. Natasha couldn't seriously expect her to twiddle her thumbs. She was the closest thing to family Steve had.

"ButI should be doing it, too. I can't go hide away somewhere. That'd be the shittiest girlfriend move ever."

"There's a chance that they don't have him yet, and if they don't, they might come after you again. Even if they have him, they might come after you again. To hurt him."

All of Natasha's statements were very matter-of-fact, and Becca didn't think she was being intentionally harsh, but it made her mad all the same. She was sick of being treated like some helpless damsel, the woman in all the action movies who only existed to provide a glimpse of bare breasts and a weak point for the otherwise stoic hero.

"So I stick with you and then it becomes a whole lot harder to get to me," she argued. "Besides, you really think Hydra's stupid enough to make the same mistake twice? If they're smart, they'll –" She realized what was about to come out of her mouth and clamped her teeth together. Her eyes grew itchy, on the verge of tears. If she asked, Natasha would give her a real opinion on what she thought Steve's chances were. "Do you think he's…?" But she couldn't finish, too afraid of the answer. Steve was still alive. He had to be.

They continued in silence for a time, Becca attempting to distract herself by thinking up ways she could help in the search to locate Steve. Each time she thought she had something, she would realize Natasha was right. Someone else could do it, probably do it better, too. She had her chance to help, and she'd let Steve slip through her fingers. She was no better than those one-dimensional love interests, only not even that nice to look at with her banged up face.

She sniffed, rubbing her nose on a sleeve. The best she could do was hole up and stay safe. It's what Steve would want. But the waiting, oh Jesus, the waiting would be awful. She needed to be given some task, no matter how small. As long as that task moved them towards bringing Steve back alive.

"Please, don't just leave me in a hotel room with nothing to do," she begged. "I have to find him."

Natasha kept quiet for two blocks before relating, "We're not going to a hotel. We're going to an apartment. And then… I'll find something you can do."

Becca sighed in relief. "Thank you."

Natasha nodded once.

With that much settled, Becca remembered that she had planned on calling the police so they wouldn't come looking for her rather than focusing on Steve. However, since Hydra probably had their tentacles wrapped around at least some of the force, it seemed a better plan to call her parents, especially since she should let them know where she had gone regardless. And they could reach out to Ally who could reach out to her other friends. Ally had needed to leave yesterday, and Becca had managed to convince her parents to drive her home and go back themselves with the promise that she and Steve would stop by for a night as soon as they'd packed up. So they should be home now, and, if they had seen any news about Steve, were worried out of their minds.

She rifled through her purse without thinking, but her phone was, of course, gone. "Do you have a phone I can borrow? I've gotta call my parents." When Natasha seemed to hesitate, she continued, "I don't care if it's safer if I don't call anyone. I need them to know I'm okay. I can't put them through anything else."

After some further hesitation, Natasha took a phone from her jacket pocket. "Give me a minute." She made a few calls, from which Becca gleaned that she had already picked out this apartment, but had planned on moving at a later time. She also talked about subjects that were definitely code, like parties and going out to lunch. There were some numbers mentioned, meant to be times maybe or a house number. Under different circumstances, listening to real-live spy talk would have been cool, but the clock was ticking.

Natasha took out a set of keys, and a car parked at a meter chirped, its lights flashing once. They climbed into their respective seats. The clean leather smell made Becca further self-conscious about the filthiness of her clothes. Her life was such a fucking mess.

After starting the car, Natasha finally gave her the phone. "Keep it short."

"Okay," Becca agreed as she dialed the number. She expected the call to go to voicemail first – her parents never picked up unknown numbers – but only two rings later, her mother answered and put her on speakerphone.

Her parents sounded very relieved to hear from her. She explained that she thought Hydra had taken Steve and "a friend" was bringing her somewhere safe until everything got sorted out. Her mom wanted her to come home, saying that they could get police protection around the house. With a vision of Hydra showing up on her parents' doorstep, she warned them not to trust anyone besides friends and family. This had her dad asking if she was really okay, so she had to reassure him several times. Noting Natasha's pointed look, she promised she would try to contact them when she could, asked that they tell Ally to spread the word, and hung up.

Within seconds of her ending the call, Natasha pulled over and tossed the phone into a dumpster.

The next point of contention came as roadblocks set up around the major entrances and exits to the D.C. area. Checking every car would've caused an insane amount of backup, so cars were being spot checked rather than all thoroughly searched. Natasha instructed Becca to get into a sweatshirt from the duffel bag behind her seat and take off her neck brace, which she did. Sweat gathered along the back of her neck and under her arms as they got closer and closer to the roadblocks.

Skip this car. Skip this car.

A cop held up a hand and approached the driver's side. Damn it. She sat on her hands to keep from fidgeting and tried to look nonchalant.

Natasha rolled down the window, cool as a cumber. Becca envied how together she always seemed. "I thought I heard you boys had taken the roadblocks down."

"We had to put 'em back up, ma'am," said the cop. "Why are you leaving D.C.?"

"Picking up my cousin. She finally decided to leave her asshole boyfriend."

Smart reason for all the bruises. Natasha was good. Becca didn't have to work hard to summon up anger. "And good fucking riddance."

The cop looked at her, and the corners of his eyes tightened. Had he recognized her? Her sweat beaded together, sticking to the sweatshirt. She forced herself to hold his gaze.

Finally, he glanced back to Natasha, and Becca let out the breath she'd been holding. "Either of you happen to see Captain America recently?"

Natasha shook her head. "I saw that conference on TV, but that's it."

For effect, Becca added, "Is this about him going missing? I saw it on Twitter. I've already texted all my friends to keep an eye out." Was she laying it on too thick? She should probably shut up.

But their answers must have satisfied the cop because he wished them a good day and stood back. Becca forced herself not to turn around to see if he was watching them drive away.

Then, it was just them, the highway, and the rock music playing on the radio. She tried to think of something to talk about, but Natasha didn't strike her as much of a talker. All she could think of was asking what had happened between her and Steve. He had been really frosty towards Natasha when she had returned her suitcase and purse, but Becca hadn't asked him about it because their own relationship was so strained. However, it didn't seem right to go jamming her nose into the problem. If they were going to be spending time together, she wanted Natasha to like her.

"I finally watched _Transformers_ yesterday because it was the only thing on," she ventured. "You ever seen it?"

"No," Natasha replied.

"That's probably for the best. There were some good effects, but I thought it was sloppily edited and the score didn't really enhance the action."

"Hm."

So much for that. Becca strapped her neck brace back on since her neck had started complaining. She wished Steve had given her some hint about what Natasha was interested in. But maybe even he didn't know. He had never actually called her a friend, but since he brought her up, Becca had assumed they were friends. She could try asking about Russia. It was a country she didn't know a whole lot about, and Natasha must have some interesting stories.

"Have you seen _Twelve_ _Monkeys_?" Natasha asked first.

Becca perked up. Maybe Natasha liked movies, too. "Yeah. I love that neo-noir feel. Gilliam did such a good job using the lighting to reflect the nihilism in the plot."

Natasha smiled faintly. "Rogers said you were a film buff."

"Did he?" She never imagined Steve talking to people about her, especially at work. She figured he was so busy agent-ing that she only crossed his mind during downtime or if she sent him a text. "I like to think I know a thing or two, but I can also talk movies with you common people. Did you like the movie?"

"It's my favorite."

They went on to talk more about _Twelve_ _Monkeys,_ but in the back of her head, Becca was still thinking about Natasha's comment. It gave her this weird surge of happiness to know Steve mentioned her, but she only rode that surge for a fleeting moment before plunging downwards. She'd like to have him with her right now so she could tease him about "gushing" over her. He'd throw the teasing right back at her, or say something totally sappy that made her roll her eyes.

Just a couple days in the apartment, a week tops, and they would probably find him. She hugged her arms across her chest and tried to convince herself that he would be okay.

* * *

Steve felt like his skin was burning, but if he lifted a hand to look, he knew that hand would be mottled red and purplish-blue. He shivered, jaw clenched to prevent his teeth from chattering. One of the nameless Hydra scientists who worked with Dr... Henson looked in on him through a clear panel, fingers flying across unseen controls. They would bring the temperature up slowly as he sat naked in the containment chamber, forcing himself to remain in a tightly curled ball as he knew that his body wasn't truly hot, but instead so cold that his mind played tricks.

He had memories of searing pain slamming into his skull as he thrashed against restraints. After, he was lead to a metal box, almost like a coffin, a… a… a cryo-tube, was what Dr. Henson had called it. There ice had formed up along his body like the embrace of a friend, ready to claim him once more. He drifted into dreamless sleep.

When he awoke, he thought for a hazy second that he was in a hospital. The white coat above him was a doctor checking to be sure Hydra hadn't left any lasting damage. He would turn and see Sam waiting and Becca with bleary eyes starting from near sleep to reach for him. But when he glanced to the side, he saw the siding of the cryo-tube and knew they had not yet found him.

He was brought to the containment chamber until the shivering had stopped, his skin turning a healthier pink. They tested his vitals, shined lights in his eyes, took blood. They had him do exercises, both physical, like running, and mental, like being shown a list of words and having to memorize them. Dr. Henson was there. She was always there. He had asked her how long it had been. She had said seventy-two hours. Or maybe she had said one-hundred-and-ninety two. The number had ended in two; that much he knew for certain, but his memories had grown hazy. Some things came quickly. With others, he stumbled through fog, searching for a glimpse of the memory he wanted.

They strapped him in that chair again, searing his brain, and then it was back into the ice. Two times. Three. Or more. But his friends were looking for him, and Steve was determined to face this repetitive torture for as long as it took to ensure their safety.

While he waited in the containment chamber, he closed his eyes. This had been hard to do at first. Disoriented and in enemy territory, his instinct was to keep alert. Now, he had another task to focus on. Keeping as many of his memories as he could. He would start as early as he could remember, stretching far back for the memories that were only fragments: the smell of Ma's apple cake, a chip in the wood that looked like a star in the church pew where they sat on Sundays. Further forward where the memories grew stronger: him and Bucky hunkered underneath the kitchen table like soldiers in a trench, the feeling of determination when he tried to climb the ropes in gym class despite the doctor's note, which he'd torn up. All the way up to memories as clear as crystal: the Chitauri pouring through a hole in the sky above Stark Tower, Becca sparring with a partner during her weekly Keysi training with that determined look that got him all hot.

Despite all those memories he retained, others disappeared. Some were small. He couldn't remember what he had eaten last. Some were not. He couldn't remember Ma's face. That particular discovery had scared him, and made him angry. He got the urge to pound on the walls. Instead, he balled himself up tighter. When he got out of this, he would get a hold of her picture. Then, he would remember. Even so, he found tears welling in the corners of his eyes and turned away from the door so that no one would see him cry.

He had worked through his memories all the way up to his first date with Becca. They had gone to a restaurant he had picked, he remembered that much. And he recalled her enjoying it, her face lighting up in a smile, but he couldn't remember what the name of the restaurant had been or what had been special about it.

At the sound of the door opening, Steve got to his feet. The scientists had him sit on a bench while they went through the routine. Two of them looked familiar, one unnamed and the other Dr. Henson, but he wasn't sure he had seen the third scientist. If he had, he'd forgotten.

They gave him clothes and took him out to exercise, running laps around the ranch under guard supervision. He did push-ups and pull-ups, and in an exercise room went through a work-out routine instructed by a man who looked more like a body-builder than a scientist. He was given a meal before going through the series of mental exercises for hours on end while his head was attached to wires that ran between him and a monitor.

The exercises ended when Dr. Henson took a seat across from him. Nervous anticipation clamped onto him with the knowledge he would soon be going back to that chair.

She asked, "Do you remember why you're here?"

Steve could remember making some kind of remark one of the times. Today, he answered, "To keep my friends safe."

"Do you remember my name?"

"Dr. Henson."

"Do you remember your name?"

"Steve Rogers."

She looked at him levelly, patiently for a few seconds. Then, her eyes shifted to the waiting scientists. "Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

Steve huddled on the floor. He had worked his way up through the war, but he couldn't remember what had happened between finding the Hydra base of operations and waking up in the twenty-first century. That particular memory seemed too big to forget, so he tried hard to come up with any detail at all.

The door opened, and Steve got to his feet, still thinking while the scientists did their examination. One of them, Dr... Dr… Henson, was familiar, but he didn't recall seeing the other two.

They gave him clothes and took him out to exercise, running laps around the ranch under guard supervision. He did push-ups and pull-ups, and in an exercise room went through a work-out routine instructed by a man who looked more like a body-builder than a scientist. He was given a meal, and then underwent a series of mental exercises for hours and hours.

At the end, Dr. Henson took a seat across from him, but Steve didn't want the exercises to be over. He remembered that there would be pain, and saw a flash of a chair and a metal contraption. He wasn't much good at lying, but he would give it a try if it meant avoiding that chair. If Dr. Henson meant to erase his memory, then he could pretend she had succeeded.

"Do you remember why you're here?"

"No."

Dr. Henson glanced at the monitor he was hooked up to. "Do you remember why you're here?"

"No."

"Do you remember my name?"

"No."

"Do you remember your name?"

"No."

She faced him, and Steve kept his expression still. He wasn't sure what gave him away when he lied, but he wouldn't take chances. The silence stretched. He didn't dare breathe. He didn't look away. He just prayed that she had believed him.

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

Steve huddled on the floor. He had worked his way through his childhood, but unable to remember his parents, if he'd had any, or where he lived, he skipped forward. He remembered there had been a government experiment to make him bigger, to make him Captain America. He remembered glimpses of battlefields and a British woman with bright red lips. He remembered that he had been in New York with his girl, Becca. He had to remember that name. And Bucky. His friend Bucky who hadn't remembered him.

The door opened. Steve got to his feet as the scientists came in. There were three of them. The woman with the graying hair was in charge, but he couldn't recall her name.

They gave him clothes and took him out to exercise, running laps around the ranch under guard supervision. He did push-ups and pull-ups, and in an exercise room went through a work-out routine instructed by a man who looked more like a body-builder than a scientist. He was given a meal, and then underwent a series of mental exercises.

The lead scientist took a seat across from him, and Steve was overcome with a feeling of dread. Something would happen to him after this, but he wasn't sure what that something was, only that it was bad.

"Do you remember why you're here?"

"To keep my friends safe." However, he was unable to remember how he had gotten to this place. But if being here meant his friends safety, then he wouldn't fight it.

"Do you remember my name?"

Steve peered at the lead scientist hard. He groped for a name amongst fragments of her watching him, of a hand extended and ignored. Nothing came to him. "No."

She glanced at the monitor. "Do you remember my name?"

"No."

For a second, her lips curved in a smile. "Do you remember your name?"

"Steve Rogers."

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

Steve lay sprawled out on the floor, burning up. He remembered that he had lived in New York. He remembered that he had lived in one time and then another. He remembered that he had a best friend who had gone to war with him. He remembered that he had a girl waiting back home. He remembered that people called him a superhero. He remembered flashes, but the rest had become fog.

The door opened. The people who entered had white coats on, so they must be doctors. One of them, a woman with graying hair told him to stand, so he did. They ran a bunch of medical tests on him.

They gave him clothes and took him out to exercise, running laps around the ranch. The people watching him made the back of his neck prickle, but he did his best to ignore them. He did push-ups and pull-ups, and in an exercise room went through a work-out routine instructed by a man with enough muscle to suggest he too used the room regularly. Steve was given a meal, and then underwent a series of mental exercises for hours and hours.

At the end, the doctor with graying hair took a seat across from him. "Do you remember why you're here?"

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but realized he didn't have an answer. He'd thought he did or he would have been asking questions far sooner. "No, ma'am."

The doctor looked at the monitor. "Do you remember why you're here?"

"No," he repeated, frustrated. "Why am I here?"

"Do you remember my name?"

Steve peered at the lead scientist hard, but got nothing. "I don't remember. Ma'am, could –"

"Do you remember your name?"

"Steve Rogers, and –"

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

He lay sprawled out on the floor, burning up. He couldn't remember anything before the doctors had brought him to this room. Through chattering teeth, he had asked where he was and if something had happened to him, but they told him to wait here. He tried to remember anything at all. All thinking achieved was making his head pound.

The door opened. He got to his feet as the doctors came in, ready with questions. One of them, a woman with the graying hair, smiled and told him that he would have his answers later.

They gave him clothes and took him out to exercise, running laps. For some reason, he was being supervised by guards with guns. He did push-ups and pull-ups, and in an exercise room went through a work-out routine instructed by a man with enough muscle to suggest he too used the room regularly. He was given a meal, and then underwent a series of mental exercises.

The doctor with the graying hair took a seat across from him.

"Do I get those answers now or do I have to jump through some more hoops?" he asked, the humor covering his apprehension.

"After a few questions," she said, facing the monitor. "Do you remember why you're here?"

"No."

"Do you remember my name?"

"No

"Do you remember your name?"

"No."

The doctor smiled, which did nothing to reassure him. "Captain." A memory stirred, an itch at the back of his mind that he couldn't quite reach. "I am part of an organization that is trying to make the world a… better place. A place with less chaos, less mess. And you are our best chance to achieve this. Our best solider."

He thought that sounded good. And there was something right about him being a soldier. But he wasn't satisfied. "But why can't I remember anything?"

"That was a procedure you agreed to," she explained. "In order for you to be able to follow orders, to keep things from becoming messy and complicated, we had to remove all potential distractions."

"But I can't even remember my name." He didn't think that made sense.

"There are too many memories attached to names. We will just call you 'Captain.' And I'm Dr. Henson."

He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to remember his name. His head throbbed in reply. Maybe it would come back to him. For now, he would focus on the task at hand.

"So what am I supposed to be doing exactly, ma'am?"

"Before we can start, you must prove that you are able to follow orders without question." Dr. Henson stood and nodded to one of the doctors. "Bring in the dog."

"Dog?"

The doctor returned with a dog, more of a puppy. It wasn't even the length of his arm. The puppy had a shiny coat of yellow fur and huge brown eyes. The doctor tethered it to a wall, where the puppy sat panting and sniffing the floor.

Dr. Henson didn't even look at the puppy. "Kill it."

He balked. He couldn't kill an innocent dog, and he wasn't so sure he wanted to be part of an organization that did. "I can follow orders."

"Then prove it to me."

He folded his arms.

With a sigh, Dr. Henson got up from her chair. "Focus on the ventromedial and dorsolateral prefrontal cortices. Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

He lay sprawled out on the floor, burning up. He couldn't remember anything before the doctors had brought him to this room. Through chattering teeth, he had asked where he was. They told him to wait here. He tried to remember anything at all. All thinking achieved was making his head pound.

The door opened. He got to his feet as three doctors came in and ran medical tests. They gave him clothes and took him out to exercise, running laps. For some reason, he was being supervised by guards with guns. He did push-ups and pull-ups, and in an exercise room went through a work-out routine instructed by a man with enough muscle to suggest he too used the room regularly. He was given a meal, and then underwent a series of mental exercises.

The doctor with the graying hair took a seat across from him.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"After a few questions. Do you remember why you're here?"

"No."

"Do you remember my name?"

"No

"Do you remember your name?"

"No."

"Captain, I'm Dr. Henson. I am part of an organization that is trying to make the world a better, less chaotic place," the doctor stated like she was reading the lines from a script. "And you are our best solider."

He didn't recall any of what she said. He wasn't even sure why she had called him 'Captain,' but he supposed that must be his rank. "Why can't I remember anything?"

"That was a procedure you agreed to in order to remove all potential distractions."

His brows pinched. Since he couldn't remember, he supposed he'd have to take her word for it. "All right…"

"Before we can start, you must prove that you are able to follow orders without question." Dr. Henson stood, and another doctor went out and came right back in with a puppy in tow. He tied it to a hook on the wall. The puppy settled down immediately, as though it had been through this all before.

Dr. Henson instructed, "Kill it."

He stood and walked over to the puppy. As he crouched down, its tail began to wag. It got up and sniffed curiously at his pants. He put a hand on his neck and another around its body. A feeling, quiet as a whisper, told him this was wrong, but like a ghost, the feeling was there and then it was gone.

He snapped the puppy's neck.

When he looked up, Dr. Henson was eyeing him approvingly. "Good. Now we can focus on more mission oriented goals."

A doctor left and returned. Behind her walked two guards escorting a woman. Cuffed encircled her wrists and ankles. She looked tired and dirty. She wore a tight blue suit with a bird emblem on the shoulder. He thought it might be an eagle. When she looked at him, her eyes widened in recognition, so he scrutinized her more closely. But he didn't recognize her.

She was cuffed to the wall, and once the guards had backed away, Dr Henson ordered, "Kill her."

The woman stared at him as he approached, disbelief in her expression. Disbelief became fear as he touched her throat. "Captain Rogers, stop. Please. This isn't you. This can't be you." She shrunk against the wall as he braced his other hand on her jaw. "You're Captain America. They're Hydra. Please. Oh god. Please, don't. Please, please."

He looked into her blue eyes, filled with tears that coursed down her cheeks. Her jaw trembled under his hand, teeth chattering in fear. He blinked, and for one odd moment, he thought her eyes had changed to brown. His breath caught. He felt angry and ashamed. When he blinked again, her eyes were blue, but his feelings had not changed.

He dropped his arms and turned away.

"She's on the other side," Dr. Henson said. "She has killed a number of our men."

He shook his head.

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

"Put him back."

* * *

He lay sprawled out on the floor, burning up. He couldn't remember anything before the doctors had brought him to this room. He didn't much care. They told him to wait here, so he waited.

The door opened. Three doctors came in. One told him to get up so he did. They ran medical tests. They gave him clothes and took him out to exercise, running laps and ignoring those watching. He did push-ups and pull-ups, and in an exercise room went through a work-out routine instructed by a man. He was given a meal, and then underwent a series of mental exercises.

The doctor with the graying hair took a seat across from him.

"Do you remember why you're here?" she asked, her voice nearly a snap.

"No."

"Do you remember my name?"

"No

"Do you remember your name?"

"No."

"Captain, I'm Dr. Henson. I am part of an organization that is trying to make the world a better, less chaotic place. And you are our best solider."

He accepted this without a word.

"Before we can start, you must prove that you are able to follow orders without question." Dr. Henson stood nodded.

A woman was escorted in and cuffed to the wall. She watched him warily.

"Kill her."

He walked over to the woman. Her chest rose and fell more rapidly but her voice was firm. "You can fight this, Captain Rogers. You're a good man." Her heartbeat pulsed in her neck, beating like a drum under the pressure of his hand. "Please don't do this. Don't."

He snapped her neck with a single, loud crack. The life left her eyes. He let go of her head and it drooped as her body sagged against the cuffs. The air filled with the smell piss and shit. His nostrils barely twitched.

"Wonderful." He could hear the smile in Dr. Henson's voice even before she turned around. "First I shall have you run some training exercises with the other soldiers, and then I can send you on a mission. I already have your first target selected. But I do think some celebration is in order."

She crossed over to a cabinet with a series of drawers and pulled out a white box. "I had this made several weeks ago." She held it out to him.

He took the box and pulled out a suit. It was blue with vertical stripes of red and white along the abdomen. In the center of the chest was white star.

"Put it on," Dr. Henson said impatiently when he stared at the suit.

Without hesitation, he stripped himself of the faded grey pants and shirt he wore and put on the suit. She handed him a pair of boots and a helmet, which he put on as well.

Dr. Henson prowled around him, scrutinizing the ensemble, tugging at bits of the fabric. Finally, she nodded in approval. "One final touch." She opened a different drawer and took out a shield. It had been painted with the same colors, rings of white and red, and in the center, the same star.

When she handed him the shield, holding it in the tips of fingers felt wrong. He gripped the handles, balancing the weight on his arm. It felt better. It felt right.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **And so Hydra Steve is now here. More of him next week, along with Becca and Natasha's apartment life.**


	10. Ticking Time Bomb

Almost thirteen hours after leaving D.C., including one stop for food and another for, according to Natasha, "better if you don't know," and they arrived in a small city in upper Michigan. Becca rubbed her eyes as she stumbled out of the passenger's side in front of the apartment complex. She had driven for a bit after the rest stop. Then, she noticed Natasha kept glancing in the rearview and got her to admit she thought they were possibly being followed, which made Becca so nervous that she nearly hit another car. Natasha's observation had been a false alarm, but they had switched back and she spent all night awake, listening to the radio for news.

It was going on two weeks since she had a decent night's sleep. Her head pounded, the ache running from her skull all the way into her teeth. Her mouth felt fuzzy. Her neck itched beneath the brace. Her dirty clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin. Long story short, she could do with a shower and a nap, but she was anxious to get started on finding Steve. The first twenty-four hours in a missing person's case were the most crucial and over half of that time had already trickled away.

The apartment Natasha had rented looked clean. Definitely meant for just one person space-wise. It had a bedroom, bathroom, and a larger room with kitchen equipment on one side and enough space for a couch and TV on the other. All of it was unfurnished – fridge and microwave excepted – however, the barren floors and walls giving the place a feeling of isolation despite the city noise outside.

Natasha dropped her bag on the floor. "You should get some sleep. Use my clothes as a pillow if you want. I'll be back."

"Back?" Becca squawked, unprepared for this sudden departure. "Where are you going?"

"I've got errands to run. What size clothing are you?"

"You're seriously going out to get clothes?" Her head pounded harder. Steve had been kidnapped by Hydra, and Natasha was worrying about her pant size? Unbelievable. Being an agent and all, Becca had expected her to be more on task.

"It's last on my list," Natasha assured her.

"Finding Steve better be first on that list."

"Of course it is."

"Well then, what can I do while you're gone? Do you have a laptop or something?"

After surveying her for several silent moments, Natasha nodded. She retrieved a laptop from her car and set up the Wi-Fi, although with some protective programs. Finished tracker-proofing everything, she gave a short lecture on websites to avoid – Becca was kind of offended that Natasha thought her dumb enough to log into social media accounts.

They decided that "monkeys" would be the password for letting Natasha back into the apartment, and she stressed that Becca wasn't to let her in no matter what else she said. Once she got Becca's clothing sizes, Natasha left her to it.

Becca settled into a corner with the laptop. She brought up Google and hesitated, fingers resting on the keys, debating where to start. General was probably best. She searched "Captain America missing." A bunch of articles popped up. She scanned the news section for the latest updates, but no official progress had been made. Which could be good or bad because it meant that no one had found a body – that they were announcing anyway – but also it didn't give her anything new to go on.

Returning to the main page and filtering by most recent posts, she poked through some articles, trying to avoid looking at pictures of her taken in the harried minutes when she'd spoken to reporters. One glance told her enough; she looked like a crazy person.

It was a picture of herself, however, that brought her up short. A screenshot, actually, from one of the torture videos. She had of course seen the bruises, the swelling, and the cuts along her throat when she looked in mirrors. But there was so much blood. Blood drying beneath her nose. Blood smearing her lips and chin. Blood curtaining her throat. And blood filling one eye which stared at the camera with this expression of…

Becca couldn't name the emotion, but she knew it. Naked pain, broken terror. Something like that, hovering on a thin edge, desperate to teeter and fall into nothingness. Her lips were parted in a gurgling sob, building to a scream. She could feel it. Deep her gut and rising. Warm tears trickled down her cheeks, warm as the blood which pounded in her ears. The pounding matched her head. She shoved a knuckle into her mouth and bit down to hold back the scream, while thrusting the laptop away. Her breath came in pants. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears plopping onto the back of her hand.

She was okay. She was safe. She was okay. She was safe.

Pulling her legs to her chest, she imagined herself sitting at home on her comfy bed instead of the hard floor and repeated the mantra to herself until she didn't feel like screaming anymore. Okay, time to focus on Steve. He needed her. Focus.

Becca took the knuckle out of her mouth. Bloody tooth marks were imprinted on the skin. She went to the bathroom, fighting down bile, and washed the skin clean before returning to the laptop. She clicked the button to go back. Doing a general search hadn't gotten her anywhere. She kept up the newsfeed and opened a new tab. What did she know? Steve had been taking boxes out to the moving truck when he disappeared. Natasha believed that some of the police force had to be involved, and she agreed. Hydra was the most likely suspect. What she needed to figure out was where Hydra had taken him. Hmm.

She tried checking Google Earth, but found that the images hadn't been updated in over a year. She wondered if Natasha had enough computer know-how to hijack a satellite. But with Natasha gone until later, she still had to figure out what do to in the meantime. She rubbed her neck brace and thought.

Know your enemy and know yourself, and you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.

Or something like that.

Steve had once used the quote (like the big nerd he was) while they played Risk, which he hadn't completely destroyed her at – but only because she had put in research hours on strategies for the game. Which did not count as cheating when going up against one of the greatest tactical minds in history.

Know your enemy. She had to find out everything she could about Hydra. Not the most immediate solution, but she didn't have any better ideas.

Wikipedia provided a reminder of the basics, and after, she dug into the file dump from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse. Luckily, people had already begun sorting all the information.

Hydra had been involved in quite a lot. Becca wasn't surprised. The big shock had been Hydra's existence. But the concept of a government agency – Hydra under the guise of S.H.I.E.L.D. – secretly having their hand in a bunch of events and forming connections with powerful people, that was a common public perception right there. Not that she didn't stumble across any surprises. Apparently, Hydra had been involved in the death of Tony's parents. And the Winter Solider had been mentioned in connection.

Becca created three spreadsheets. The first listed known safe-houses and bases of operation, as well as the dates on which they had been used. These had probably been abandoned and/or were already being searched, but it didn't hurt to keep them in mind. The second focused on events like raids, takeovers, assassinations, etc. that Hydra was linked to, with notes of the locations and dates. The final spreadsheet involved names that were dropped. She googled each to see if she could find out who they were or, in the case of names she knew, where they were last seen. She also included the dates of the files in which they were mentioned.

Her idea was to cross-reference all of the spreadsheets in the hopes of finding hotspots of activity where Hydra might take Steve in a pinch. After all, they wouldn't have had long to plan the kidnapping. It did occur to her that he might have been taken by someone else, but if that was the case, she had nothing at all to go on, so she stuck to the spreadsheets.

She was still at it when a knock sounded on the door, propped up against a wall to keep from falling asleep and barely able to read the computer screen. She kept nodding off, the loss of balance as her head lowered snapping her awake each time.

Her knees cracked when she stood. She had to hold the wall as pins and needles jabbed at her legs. Natasha had given her a gun, but touching it made her feel sick. She settled on a pen. Not as deadly, but if she slammed it into someone's head, it'd hurt.

She stared through the peephole, pen aloft. It was Natasha. She reached for the doorknob, but remembered at the last second to ask, "Who is it?"

"Monkeys," said Natasha.

She opened the door. "Find anything?"

"Maybe," Natasha replied, unloading several bags onto the floor. "Let me empty the car first."

Becca insisted on helping in order to speed up the process, so they only had to make two trips. Natasha had brought food, bathroom essentials, two sleeping bags, and two pillows in addition to sealed duffel bags which swung heavily from her shoulders. Becca was guessing weapons.

Over heated up cartons of ramen, Natasha explained that she had the names of all the cops who had been on duty around Steve's apartment, as well as one of the special operatives. Some were aliases, some were not. All of them had gone to ground in the hours following Steve's disappearance, except for one of the cops, who had allegedly shot himself in his apartment (Becca had seen that while refreshing the Google news). All security footage had been mysteriously wiped, but she had "a contact" who was working on recovering it.

Becca, in turn, explained what she had been working on. Natasha didn't give any indication of whether or not she thought the spreadsheets would be useful, listening without so much as a nod. When Becca also explained her idea about using satellites, Natasha informed her that she didn't know how to hijack a satellite, but she was sure her contact had thought of it.

"So what do we do now?" Becca asked. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "Should I keep working on the spreadsheets while you follow up on those cops? Or do you think there's something more helpful I could be doing?"

Natasha nodded to the collection of bags. "Take a shower and get some sleep."

"I can sleep tonight. I've been up for more than twenty-four hours before."

"Sleep deprivation impairs your thought process. He needs you thinking clearly."

Becca wrinkled her nose, ready to argue that she could manage a while longer. But her itchy eyes and pounding headache said otherwise. "Okay, but just a few hours, and then wake me up." She could trade off with Natasha, who still appeared alert but had the beginning signs of telltale bruising beneath her eyes.

She had gotten used to the smell of her clothing, but the stink came back full-force as she stripped. She filled the bath halfway with water and got in on her knees to avoid putting the bullet wound on her hip or the knife wounds on her neck wet. She had learned her lesson after the shower incident. A thorough washcloth scrub and hair washing later, she drained the tub and got into a plain pair of sweatpants and t-shirt.

Natasha had already set up the sleeping bags, one on either side of the bedroom. Becca chose the one farthest away from the door and settled down. It didn't take her long to fall asleep.

* * *

Becca woke up to a sore back and a cheek wet with drool, but her headache had gotten more bearable. She had expected nightmares, but none had come. Too tired, it seemed. Light shone behind the window blinds, so she must not have slept long. She did have to pee really bad though. She hurried to the bathroom on shaky legs, which were not yet quite as awake as her bladder.

She used the toilet and splashed cold water on her face to jar herself into alertness. Ugh. Everything was sore. She ran through a few quick stretches, and then turned her attention to the living room area.

Which Natasha had turned into Find Steve Central. That might be a little dramatic, but she did have five laptops set up with several modems and a router, along with other equipment Becca didn't recognize. Additionally, she had a stack of files beside her, some of the pages on the floor fanned out. In the middle of it all, the serene eye of the technological storm, sat Natasha. She glanced up as Becca came in.

"There's half a can of soup in the fridge." Her gaze lowered to one of the laptops and resumed typing. "Or I made – they're like pancakes."

She'd had time to make soup and pancakes? Becca asked, "How long was I asleep?"

"Fourteen hours."

"What?! I told you to wake me up."

"You needed to sleep. And there hasn't been any change."

Becca struggled not to freak out. Obviously, Natasha had been keeping an eye on things, and other people had still been looking for Steve. "Explain where we are then, and I'll take over while you get some sleep."

"I already slept."

"Fine. Whatever." She waved at the laptops. "What's all this?"

Two of the laptops were for surveillance on this apartment. Natasha had hacked into the security camera out front, as well as setting up her own in blind spots. One of the laptops still had the Google news feed up and was being regularly refreshed. The fourth laptop was monitoring some potential Hydra networks for activity. The last laptop – the one with the largest modem – ran constant facial recognition software on security feeds all over the country and some other parts of the world. Natasha was currently working on hacking into more feeds.

Becca had to admit, this was pretty impressive. And way out of her depth. "So, what can I do?"

Natasha nudged the laptop with the news feed towards her. "Keep working on those spreadsheets."

"Okay." She sat down in front of the laptop and found that spreadsheets were still open along with the tab for the Hydra files she had been reading.

They passed the days in front of those laptops. Occasionally Natasha left to scout out a location or do spy stuff. When Becca asked to go, the request was denied, and she didn't push because she knew she'd get in the way more likely than not. In fact, she started to wonder if Natasha was humoring her by giving her small tasks that ultimately didn't seem to be amounting to anything.

Day by day, she grew more resentful of Natasha, who could do all these things she couldn't. Who always seemed so collected, even when Becca woke sweaty from nightmares or had a panic attack when Natasha appeared suddenly behind her. Who wasn't unfriendly, but didn't go out of her way to be friendly either. The one sliver of balance between them was a daily thirty-minute yoga routine. It wasn't enough.

Becca hated quiet. She hated the painful twangs in her neck. She hated that she had to stay indoors, apart from the one three-hour drive Natasha had taken her on so she could call her parents from a different state. She hated that she'd had to drop her entire life. And most of all, she hated that they hadn't gotten so much as a glimpse of Steve.

Nearly one month to the day when Steve had disappeared, Becca reached her boiling point. She had been listening to music on Pandora to fill up the silence while she went between refreshing the newsfeed and watching the surveillance monitors, but after a while, all the music sounded the same.

"Do you want to listen to something else?" she asked Natasha.

Without looking up, Natasha responded, "If you want to listen to something else, you can."

"Okay, well, you put on rock music in the car. Do you want to listen to that?"

"If you like it, that's fine. Otherwise, I don't care."

"You don't care." Becca could feel the anger building, like a pressure behind her eyeballs. "Of course, you don't care. Why share your taste in music with me? You've barely shared anything else."

That finally got Natasha to look up. "I like rock music," she said, but it was too little too late.

"I don't get you," Becca snapped. "Like, I have tried and tried to get to know you. When you seemed uncomfortable sharing something, I didn't push. And yet, here we are weeks later and I know approximately jack-shit. Did I offend you? Do I annoy you? What's your deal?"

"There's no deal. And you don't annoy me." Her calm demeanor didn't slip an inch. And Becca was so done.

"I can't be here anymore. I'm leaving." She got up.

Natasha mirrored the movement. "It's not safe for you to go."

Becca snorted. "Tch. Why, because Hydra might come after me? That's bullshit. It's been a month. They don't want me. They probably never did. They just wanted Steve, and once they got him, I was nothing to them."

"If they still have him –"

"And if they don't, he's _dead!_ " The word rung in the room, pinging off the walls like a bullet from a gun held half-cocked for too long. With its release, tears sprung to Becca's eyes. "He's probably dead, and I've done nothing but sit in a fucking room playing with these goddamn stupid computers." She kicked the laptop closest to her, and it slid across the floor, cord yanking from the wall with a spark. "I knew something would happen to him. I knew it, and I let him go outside anyway."

"No one lets Rogers do anything," Natasha soothed with a hint of wry humor. "You're not responsible."

"Bullshit. I let him die."

"We don't know he's dead."

Becca shook her head minutely. After a month? He had to be. She didn't want to believe it, but he had to be. She hastened from the living room into the bedroom, shutting the door and dropping onto her sleeping bag. She dumped the contents of her purse in front of her. There had to be something from Steve in here. She combed through the contents. Nothing.

Nothing, except a pharmacy bag. She and Steve had stopped at the pharmacy for refills on their medication before going to the apartment. She had put all of it in her purse. She opened the bag and pulled out the bottles. Penicillin for both of them. And for him, one bottle of Oxycodone. She traced the label with a fingertip. A couple of these, and she would be too sleepy to care for a while. She could sleep, put off the pain for one more night.

She unscrewed the cap and poured out the familiar tablets onto her hand. One swallow, and all that time clean out the window. But no, this wasn't the same. She would only take them once. Just once. She needed to forget. She needed Steve to be alive a little longer.

At the knock on the door, Becca hastily shoved the pills back into the bottle and threw the bottle into the bag. "What?"

"Can I come in?" Natasha asked.

She almost said no, but she hadn't expected Natasha to come after her. So instead she wiped her eyes and said, "I guess."

Natasha entered the room and stood near the foot of her sleeping bag. It was the second instance in which Becca could ever remember her looking even remotely uncertain. The crack in her cool exterior made her indicate the floor without thinking. Natasha took a seat there, although two or three feet away. This time Becca wasn't talking first. If Natasha had something to say, she could say it.

And she did.

"I know I haven't been the best roommate. And I'm not usually this difficult to get along with. But that's – that's because usually I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. I see someone and I see their weaknesses. I find out what they want, and then I become that person. I know that sounds… impersonal, but it's the way I was trained. And most of the time, it makes things easier. But it's harder with people like you."

Becca tilted her head, her neck giving a sharp reminder not to move it so much. "People like me?"

"People who are nice," Natasha elaborated. "People who genuinely care about other people with no strings attached. You might need other people and you want to be liked, but that doesn't mean you don't go out of your way to take time for strangers."

Was that how Natasha saw her? Becca wasn't sure how she'd gotten that from their time in the apartment. And there was a foreign quality to the way Natasha talked about being nice, like it was some rare, prized quality. Becca thought more people had kindness in them than not.

"You make being nice sound so weird."

Natasha shrugged. "It's less 'weird' to me than it used to be."

"I don't think yelling at you was particularly nice," Becca mumbled, abashed at her outburst.

"You're under a lot of stress. I was expecting something like that a lot sooner."

"Oh." Becca rubbed her arm awkwardly and looked away. "I'm sorry. And I appreciate everything you've done trying to help me find Steve. You didn't have to do all this."

"He would do the same for me," Natasha said without hesitation, and when Becca looked back at her, she saw a flicker of emotion, a soft emotion. Not love, but respect? Appreciation? "And I think I owe him this much."

Becca bit her lip. She was so afraid to hope, and yet she couldn't help herself. "Do you really think he's still alive?"

"I can't say I'm sure, but…" Natasha shrugged. "I think that if Hydra had killed him, they'd put his body where everyone could see."

If there was a chance, they had to keep looking. "Then I won't give up."

Things were easier between her and Natasha after that conversation. Not miraculously easy. Natasha didn't open up about her whole life's story all of the sudden. Rather, it was little things. An offer of advice on perfecting a yoga posture. Volunteering a funny story about a mission. A smile. Becca grew to understand why she would have gotten along with Steve. They were both strong, silent types, but with a sense of humor. And for all Natasha had made about her being nice, Becca thought she had a kind streak, too.

Aside from their interactions, Becca found herself watching the surveillance footage when she hit a dead end, which was often. She grew to recognize several people, even making up stories for them and – if Natasha was out – having conversations with them, just to have someone to talk to. It sounded insane, but sometimes it was the only thing keeping her sane.

There was the thirty-year-old mother of three, who secretly loved hockey and knew how to juggle. There were the two college sophomores with an unrequited love story that would break anyone's heart. There was the man with the black baseball cap who never showed his face, too ashamed at becoming recently homeless. There was the little old lady carrying on an affair with the hot banker who she admired from the window as he biked to work.

Becca was sitting in front of the apartment surveillance laptops, waiting for the banker to bike past when one of the other laptops pinged. She had never heard that sound before and jumped. What the hell? She glanced at the other laptops. Natasha had gone to sniff around a possible lead, so she had no one to ask about the pinging noise. The soft _ping_ sounded again. She focused on the sound. It was coming from the hacked security footage laptop.

She scooted over to it. And stopped breathing.

Steve.

After two months without a seeing a hair on his head, seeing him whole and alive didn't feel real. She reached out and touched the screen as though it might prove to be a mirage. But the screen was solid. She laughed, hit with a surge of giddiness. He was alive.

And in his Captain America uniform. Not the dark blue S.H.I.E.L.D. version, but one similar to the original uniform, if somewhat sleeker. The fuzzy feeling of happiness at the sight of him grew sharp edges as she noticed he was flanked by two men in army gear. She leaned into the screen. Steve had this grim set to his mouth that she didn't like. She would have tried zooming in or out to get an idea of what might be happening, but Natasha had never explained how to use the laptop because there hadn't been a need. Normally, Becca wasn't afraid to click buttons, but if she lost the feed, she might not be able to find him again. She did have a location, displayed in a side bar along with coordinates.

Steve was in D.C. Either he had never left or… something else was happening. Becca knew in some part of her brain that she could call Natasha, who had left a phone in case of emergencies, but she couldn't tear herself away from the screen. She watched as Steve approached an office building with the other soldiers. People stopped on the street to stare at him, pulling out phones. Others hastened away, the sight of a superhero usually a precursor to impending disaster.

The soldiers pulled out guns, each jerking movement the sign of a shot being fired, and Becca trembled in trepidation.

A man came into frame, older, with a pressed suit. He was likely a politician considering the location and the bodyguards who went down under gunfire, but she wasn't good at putting faces to names in politics. Steve would know, and he was headed straight for him. The man's lips moved soundlessly; his hands were raised in surrender. Steve didn't respond. He took the man's arm and shoved him against a car. The man was still speaking, his face twisted in confusion and fear. Faced away from Steve, he didn't see the shield come up. Or come down.

His head tumbled across the roof of the car.

What the fuck? Becca blinked at the screen in shock. What the _fuck?_ Steve had just decapitated that man with his shield. The move was so brutal, so extreme that she couldn't reconcile it with her image of Steve. She knew he had killed people, but this… this was horrifying. And worse, he had no expression on his face. No guilt, no resignation, no determination. Nothing. His face was a blank mask as he dropped the man's body.

This couldn't be her Steve. He disappeared for two months and showed up out of nowhere to decapitate someone who had clearly been pleading for their life? It didn't make any sense.

Then, things got stranger.

* * *

He let go of the body of General Alexander, and it crumpled at his feet. Screams, shouting, pounding feet running away, all of it rolled over him. His orders had been to eliminate the director of the NSA in the quickest manner possible. He had followed those orders and, pending a successful retreat, the mission would be a success. They were one step closer to achieving a better world, one that would not answer to a corrupted agency like the NSA. At least, that was what Dr. Henson had explained to him.

They needed to make their retreat before reinforcements were called, all of the closest obstacles having already been removed. He turned, but in the corner of his eye, he saw one of his fellow soldiers, Sergeant Bracken, kick the body with the faint hint of a smirk.

It slammed into him without warning. Rage. Like a living animal bursting inside him, clawing, stretching its wings.

He punched Bracken smack in his jaw. The sergeant roared in pain, clutching the side of his face. Blood dripped from his mouth, a tooth falling from between his lips. He raised his fist for another punch, but Sergeant Alile grabbed his arm.

"This not part of mission, Captain," said Alile, brows pinched in worry.

He wanted to punch Alile too, and Bracken again. He wanted to beat his fists against everything surrounding him. The rage inside him howled to be set free, but at the sound of approaching sirens, he leashed it. "Let's go."

They sprinted back to the car. At full speed he reached the car first, surveying his surroundings for potential threats as he waited for the sergeants to catch up. He took the backseat, and they sped off. The sound of police cars gained on them, the sirens wailing in his head which still throbbed with rage.

The first cars to reach them were not the police. They were black, sleek, and speeding towards them with precise maneuvers. He reached into a bag at his feet and took out a grenade. He waited and watched.

The back windshield shattered under gunfire. He threw up his shield, deflecting the bullets. Still he waited. Two cars. Three. Five. Seven. Any moment now the black cars would try to surround their car, along with the squad of encroaching police cars. He flicked the grenade pin, took a split second to aim, and threw.

The blast caught three of the black cars and two civilian cars full force causing a massive road block. Alile spun the wheel, turning abruptly to avoid smashing into a police car. Bracken had leaned out of his window and was shooting at the tires of cars within range.

He climbed out through the back windshield, the pressure of glass shards raking along his legs. Holding onto the sill for balance as the car swerved, he made a calculated throw with his shield. It ricocheted off a police car, the car spinning out and getting hit long ways but the two cars behind it. The shield spun back to him.

"Captain! The water!" Alile shouted.

He turned. The Potomac had appeared, the surface glinting peacefully. He clambered back inside. Bracken rolled up his widow.

Alile pushed a button and a grinding buzz vibrated in the car as new glass replaced the back windshield and metal shifted and rejoined. The sergeant hit another button. Light flared and there was a massive blast, which created a hole in the traffic and the guardrail. Alile punched on the gas, and they went sailing off the road and into the Potomac.

They sank, until Alile flipped a switch and a motor whirred to life. The headlights barely cut through the murk, but a sonar display appeared in one corner of the windshield.

Riding through the gloom, he found that his rage had gone with as little warning as its appearance.

They did not speak on the ride back to base, not even when they changed cars. Alile parked in what had once been a stable, and they were admitted into the bunker.

Dr. Henson stood waiting for them. She had a hard expression on her face. They formed a line in front of her. Her eyes didn't move from him. "Bracken, Alile, you are dismissed."

They left to their rooms to clean up and presumably sit on their cots until they were summoned. That was how he spent his time when they weren't training.

Dr. Henson demanded, "I would like to know why you thought it necessary to punch Sergeant Bracken."

"It wasn't necessary," he admitted. His punching Bracken had not furthered their mission in any capacity.

"Then why did you do it?"

"I… was angry."

Dr. Henson's eyes narrowed, her look becoming more critical. "And why were you angry?"

He frowned as he thought, searching for a reason for this feeling. The emotion had been so strong. Usually he felt nothing close to that rage. He recognized emotion in others, but it seemed a distant thing from him.

"I'm not sure. Bracken kicked the body –"

"General Alexander's body, you mean?"

"Yes, ma'am. He kicked the body, and then I punched him."

"Hm." Dr. Henson touched his forehead with the tips of her fingers, eyes darting like they could see into his head. "Out too long," she murmured. "Or perhaps the perfected serum has a faster healing capacity. If only I could cut out a piece without possible damage." She lowered her hand. "Change into your uniform – no shirt or boots – and wait outside your room when you are ready."

He nodded and went to his room, which he shared with several of his fellow soldiers. He removed his suit, folded it, and put it all away in a box at the end of his bed. He put on gray sweatpants and stood at attention outside his door.

A few minutes later a man in a lab coat who he had seen passing through the hallways came for him. He was brought to a room containing a large chair with a metal contraption. He got an odd feeling looking at it, a nervous feeling. Dr. Henson stood beside the chair.

"You look anxious, Captain," she noted. "We'll take care of that, and your anger. And you won't remember a thing."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **A lot of time passed in this chapter, but I didn't think it was necessary to stretch out two months of Becca and Natasha staring at laptops. And we already saw last chapter what Steve did in those two months. Now he's out, but there still problems... which we'll pick up on next week!**


	11. Taking Action

Becca was about ready to hop a taxi to D.C. herself and do some snooping. She had called Natasha, who basically told her to stay put and hang tight (surprise, surprise), and spent the rest of the day digging through footage of Steve on repeat and pacing. She watched videos taken from all different angles with grainy phone cameras and good ones. She looked at screenshots, made them bigger and smaller to analyze every detail.

The person in full Captain America gear was definitely Steve, from the build of his body down to the thickness of his eyelashes. So she had to wrap her head around why he would show up out of the blue after two months to decapitate the top brass at the NSA and participate in a car chase that had resulted in a reported six deaths and fifty-three injuries, during which several witnesses stated they saw him throwing his shield at a cop car. If he had been after the cops, that'd be one thing. Those cops could've secretly been Hydra. But she knew that Steve would never endanger civilians.

He wasn't himself. The thought which chimed on repeat in her head reminded of her of how Steve had talked about Bucky. She searched, but for all of Hydra's files that had been dumped onto the internet, few mentioned the Winter Solider. The name popped up and vanished, no details. He was the grim reaper, a figure that needed neither introduction nor explanation, but where his name appeared death followed.

And now, Steve had emerged seemingly from the nether sphere with no explanation, and on his heels came death.

The situation wasn't quite the same, of course. With Bucky, it seemed like Hydra had gone out of their way to keep him a secret weapon. Steve was front-page news. While keeping Steve's presence undetected would've undoubtedly proven harder than with Bucky, Becca didn't think that was the only reason for the difference.

This attack spread panic and fear, sending shockwaves out in a way that the Winter Soldier never could. Because no one knew Hydra was behind this, not for a certainty. It looked like a superhero – the golden boy, the righteous spirit of America – had killed several government officials in cold blood. Whoever was behind this attack had a plan, a smart plan.

She stopped her pacing at the knock on the door and sprinted over, practically smacking her face against the surface in her haste as she peered through the peephole. Thank god.

"Who is it?"

"Jasmine rice," Natasha replied, using the latest in their rotating series of passwords.

Becca let her in. "Hey. People are saying there was a car chase, and the car drove straight into the river." She had tried calling Natasha back once she'd read that detail, but hadn't gotten an answer.

"It can run underwater." Natasha took off her jacket and tossed beside the door. "The car _was_ S.H.I.E.L.D.'s."

"Which means it's Hydra's now. Has anyone found it?"

Natasha shook her head.

"Fuck." Becca breathed in deep through her nose to vent her frustration. A missing submersible car was better than Steve drowning in a car. "What else do you know?"

"The man Rogers killed, General Alexander's schedule was forwarded to a private e-mail address. It was only accessed once, but my contact will have people sent to scout out the location."

"Okay. Good."

"The two soldiers with Rogers are –"

"Sergeants Fisher and Yeaboah," Becca finished. "They went AWOL years ago, but people around them said it didn't make sense that they'd left."

Another reason that she thought Steve might have gone through whatever had been done to Bucky. These two sergeants had similar stories to his. They were the golden boys, proud to serve their country and protect their fellow soldiers. Then, poof. They had vanished into thin air never to be heard from again. Until today.

"Sorry," she added. She had gotten better at deciphering Natasha's subtler facial expressions, and Natasha was definitely giving her a look. "You were saying?"

"They're being looked into as well."

"By your contact." Natasha nodded. "I'm never finding out who this contact is, am I?"

"I could tell you…"

Becca lifted an eyebrow. "But then you'd have to kill me. You know, this is the third time you've used that saying. At some point I've gotta start wondering if you're being serious."

Natasha flashed one of her mysterious smiles, a further part of the joke. At least, Becca was ninety-five percent sure it was a joke. But she couldn't let herself get off track.

"Why do you think Steve did it?"

Smile fading, Natasha said, "I think there are a few possibilities. It might not be him. There's technology that can change a person's face."

Becca wrinkled her nose. Steve had told her about the face mask technology Natasha had used to get into the Triskeleton, but he hadn't said anything about mirroring someone's body. She supposed a full-body cloaking device could be possible or another person could have Steve's body type, but it seemed highly unlikely. She had seen him enough to be confident in her ability to recognize an imposter.

"Or he could be under the influence of Loki's scepter, which has gone missing."

It took her a second to remember what Natasha was talking about. An alien scepter that could control minds resting in the hands of Hydra. Nothing could go wrong there. Why did S.H.I.E.L.D. even have that scepter? She had assumed that it, like the Tesseract, had gone to Asgard with Thor.

"But that theory's not looking too good, Natasha admitted. "It's hard to tell because Rogers has blue eyes already, but the scepter gives the person's irises a blue glow. Neither of the soldiers seemed to have it. Which leaves one more option."

"That Steve's the next Winter Solider," Becca finished for her. She could see the confirmation in Natasha's eyes. "What's your gut tell you?"

Natasha considered before admitting, "I've dug up some files on the Winter Solider. A lot of the scientists mentioned are still in the wind. And when the FBI raided the safe house where some of the equipment Hydra used in the experiment was supposed to be, it was empty."

"I knew it!" Becca exclaimed, slapping her palm against a wall. "Okay… okay… Steve told me he got through to Bucky, and Bucky's been the Winter Solider for years, right? Steve's only been with Hydra for two months."

"I don't like were this is going," Natasha interjected.

"I haven't even finished."

"You don't need to."

Becca chewed her bottom lip. She had thought a lot about this as she'd worn a path around the apartment. Under the spotlight wasn't a place she liked to be. Steve had made the experience tolerable because he took up most of the light, leaving her half in the privacy of the dark. When the Hydra videos and S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance had turned every media spotlight onto their lives, she had felt like dropping off the face of the Earth. But she hadn't, under Steve's protective shadow.

Well, she had all the privacy she could ever want in this little apartment, but she couldn't stay. She couldn't duck her head and slink back to her mundane day-to-day either. Calling attention to herself might scare the shit out of her and it might be dangerous, but she had to do it. Steve was out there, and he needed her.

"I have to try and reach him," she stated.

Natasha folded her arms, her body leaning towards the door as though she might jump in front of it. "You'll make yourself a target."

"Good. I want him to find me."

"They might not send him."

"But they might." She held out her hands imploringly, begging Natasha to understand. "I can't let him be the Winter Soldier. Innocent people are gonna keep dying. And either he's gonna get himself killed, or someday he'll snap out of it and the guilt will crush him."

"And if he snaps out of it and finds out you're dead?" Natasha asked pointedly.

Becca shivered, a ghost of the blade stabbing into her throat. It was a risk she had to take. For Steve, but also for herself. He wasn't the only one who could be crushed by guilt. "I have to try. I'm not letting you keep me here. You can come with me or you can stay. It's entirely up to you."

Natasha stared at her for a long time. Becca hoped she would respect her decision to leave, and she wouldn't blame Natasha if she chose to stay behind. Natasha had done a lot over the past two months, tirelessly following leads, sifting through mountains of information. In fact, Becca had only seen her laying in her sleeping bag once. She was always the first to rise and the last to bed, insisting she didn't need much sleep. When she left, Natasha would likely continue the routine.

"What's your plan?" Natasha questioned.

Not an outright condemnation, so Becca would take it. "I need to get in touch with Devika. Technically, she's Steve's press agent, but I'm hoping she'll help me out. And I'll do whatever she thinks is best, but right now I'm thinking…" She took a breath, stomach roiling with nerves. "I'm thinking I'll have to hold a press conference."

Natasha's frown thinned. "That could endanger a lot of people."

"Not if we do it like last time. Just gather a few reporters, a few cameras. All very hush-hush. No one will know until I go live."

"And then?"

"Then I talk and hope it reaches him or someone in Hydra. Maybe it'll open a line of communication. Maybe it'll get their attention on me. Maybe Steve will see it and start to remember. I don't know." That he hadn't seen her torture videos while they were plastered all over the country didn't inspire a ton of confidence, but it was a plan. Or the semblance of one.

The constant hum of the laptops, so familiar that Becca barely noticed the sound anymore, filled the room as Natasha thought it over. "All right. Let me take care of a few things, and we'll go."

While she changed clothes and used the bathroom, Becca searched online for Devika's number and was able to locate the agency she had joined. She wrote down the contact information on a napkin.

They didn't have much in the apartment, but what little they did have made the space homier. When it was all packed less than twenty minutes later, the apartment had the same lonely, barren feeling as it had when they first arrived. Natasha said she planned on bringing them back after the press conference, but preferred not to leave anything behind, just in case.

Becca waved at the old lady who she watched daily from the surveillance footage and so felt like a friend. The lady peered at her with suspicion, but cautiously waved back. Man, it felt good to be out of the apartment. She had missed being outside.

They drove for two hours in the general direction of D.C. before finally stopping at a mall to pick up a phone. Becca called the number as Natasha kept driving and was put through to Devika, who was bursting with questions, very few of which Becca could answer. Once Devika had calmed down, Becca explained the situation and her idea. Devika told her she would put out feelers and see what she could do, promising to call back once she had something lined up.

When she did call back, it was almost three hours later. Becca and Natasha had stopped at an Ethiopian restaurant for dinner.

Becca picked up on the second ring. "Hey. What's up?"

" _How far are you away from New York City?"_

"Um…." She took the phone away from her ear and asked Natasha, "How far do you think we are from New York City?"

Natasha shrugged. "Around nine hours straight drive?"

She pressed the phone back to her ear. "Nine hours."

" _Nine hours, okay. I assume you'll need to change, get some food in you. I'll ask if they can reschedule by an hour."_

"Who can reschedule?"

" _You're going to have a joint press conference with Tony Stark."_ She was thrown by this total curveball. It must have shown on her face because Natasha narrowed her eyes intently. _"Is that all right?"_

"I, um… I thought – I mean, I know we wanted a lot of coverage, but I thought you said all the news stations would pick up on the story no matter how many reporters were there."

" _And they especially will if Tony Stark is also involved. He'll be talking about how the Avengers are handling everything, and you'll be one of the methods they're employing. Don't worry. No one but him and his press team will know you're coming, so safety won't be an issue."_

All Becca could think about was how she had smiled and lied through her teeth to the press before. Now Tony would be doing the same. Wasn't he?

"But that's… not what's happening. Is it?"

Devika sighed. " _We'll talk it over later. This is the best way to reach Steve, I promise."_

"O-okay." She would have to trust Devika because she didn't have a clue what she was doing.

" _Think about what you want to say, and I'll call you once I have everything lined up on my end."_

So Becca did think as they drove to the highway that would get them on route to New York, but she didn't know what she should say, or what she could say in front of all those cameras.

When Steve had recounted his fight with Bucky, he had told her he got through to his friend by using "I'm with you 'til the end of the line," a saying that had meaning to the both of them. But she and Steve didn't have any special sayings, no magic keys that would unlock his memory. Asking him to remember a certain moment in their relationship seemed another option, but how did she know what to choose? How could she know which moment he held closest? The day they met? Their first adventure? Their first kiss? Or some fleeting moment she had forgotten altogether?

Fortunately, Devika didn't sound disappointed with her lack of progress when she called. She laid out a whole speech like a game of Mad Libs with blanks for Becca to fill in. The speech stressed that she knew Steve was fighting for control, and no more deaths would happened, and the Avengers had his back, and she missed him terribly, blah, blah, blah. Becca's biggest concern was that the speech rested on a lot of assumptions, bordering on outright lies. When she voiced her concern, Devika defended herself by insisting that the speech minimized public panic and would also remove some of the tarnish from Steve's reputation.

The speech still didn't sit right with Becca. She had put on a show for the press once. She hadn't wanted to do it again. But then, she had never wanted to be part of another press conference again, and she was heading to one likely to be twice as big as the last. She agreed to the speech, made plans to meet Devika in the morning at her apartment (she needed nice clothes and a makeup), and hung up.

Her unease hadn't diminished as she dropped the phone into a cup holder. The sky had turned an inky black, stars obscured by cloud cover. It was late. She should try to sleep a couple of hours, and then she would take a turn driving.

"Sometimes we have to tell lies to protect people," Natasha said over the faint guitar riff on the radio.

Becca frowned at her. "You dumped all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets onto the internet."

"Sometimes people are ready for the truth."

Wow, so helpful. She slumped down in her seat. "Steve would never lie."

"You're not Rogers."

"I'm very aware." She was sweating bullets over this speech whereas he always knew the right thing to say in front of a camera.

"And he wouldn't want you to try to be. If you want to reach him, _you_ have to talk to him."

Becca rubbed at her itchy, tired eyes. She made a good point. Steve had gotten to Bucky by being Steve. She had to use the same method. If she got through to him, the public would have no cause for alarm. If. The big if.

Natasha mused, "Although you are a little like him."

Resting her face against the cool glass of the window, Becca remarked, "Except I had to work for this great ass."

"But not the bad humor."

Becca grinned, albeit feebly. They did have that in common.

She managed to sleep until four a.m. when the jolt of a wheel hitting a pothole woke her up. Since she was awake, Natasha pulled off the highway for gas and to pick up some drinks and snacks at the gas station. Becca got behind the wheel, and Natasha fell asleep with the ease of someone used to catching sleep whenever and wherever they could, leaving Becca with the glow of the GPS and the brightening horizon for company as she fretted over the speech.

The skyline of New York City stole her breath as she turned around a curve in the road. She felt like she had taken the world's worst two-month vacation, but at last made it back. God, she had missed New York. The busy streets, the constant blare of noise, even the thick smell of the city. And her friends, her job (if she even had a job anymore), her whole life was anchored here. From the first week living in her shitty little college dorm room, she had known that New York was meant to be her home.

She navigated easily – as easy as one could in the hazardous traffic – to her apartment. Her street was resident parking only, but there was a lot three blocks over where she directed anyone staying more than a couple of minutes. Technically, the lot was also resident parking, but the first-come-first-serve kind with the well-known neighborhood secret that if you slipped the parking attendant a twenty, he'd let you park your car. Or motorcycle, although in Steve's case, he just thought he could get in because she was a resident, whereas in reality the parking attendant didn't charge Captain America the twenty. Becca had never done anything to make him think otherwise.

The apartment was empty, Ally being at work. Becca told Natasha to make herself comfortable, get food, whatever while she showered and changed. And yes, her wounds had healed enough that she deemed a shower to be safe. Natasha had taken the stitches out weeks ago, and while the scarring still looked pretty ugly on her neck and side – the grazes on her arm and leg were healing nicely – Natasha had relayed from experience that the scarring would fade, though never vanish.

Taking a shower with her own shampoo and soaps, Becca allowed herself to relax for a bit. It would've been hard not to. Wrapped in a fluffy towel, she went into her bedroom, calling down the hall that Natasha could have a turn at the shower. She fell onto the bed and promptly sneezed at the fine layer of dust that had formed on her comforter. Everything was as she had left it, from the capped and half-full water bottle on her nightstand to the pile of laundry in her hamper, a pair of pants hanging on the edge where she had tossed them. She had only expected to be gone a week, but two months had dragged on by.

A scrapbook leaning against the wall caught her eye. She went to pick it up and returned to her bed, propping herself against a pillow. She flipped through the pages.

The scrapbook contained all of the drawings Steve had gifted her with when he visited. Some of them were silly cartoons, others still-lifes. Occasionally a single sheet of paper had multiple drawings, doodles around the edges. But a single drawing inevitably showed signs of more attention. The only drawing not in the scrapbook was the first one he'd given her, their cartoon turtle selves, which she'd framed and hung on her wall. She turned from a rendering of a lone flower on a rock outcropping and paused. Gingerly, she took the drawing out from under the plastic cover.

If she had learned anything from being a copywriter, a visual aid never hurt.

Becca set the drawing aside and, after returning the scrapbook to its resting place, focused on picking out her outfit. Which turned into a massive process during which she had to call on Natasha for her opinion. They settled on a navy blue dress with a white belt. Becca wanted to wear a scarf with the dress to hide the scarring, but Natasha talked her out of it by pointing out that the scars might help Steve remember. Still, she couldn't help patting on some cover-up to make them look less gross. She put her hair up in a twist and layered on the usual "paparazzi-ready" makeup: eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, and tinted lip gloss – no blush; it clashed with her freckles. For a final touch, she added patterned, gold teardrop earrings Steve had bought her for her birthday. They were small enough that Becca wondered if they would read on camera, but she figured they might trigger a memory if they did.

She was feeling good about the ensemble – despite Natasha putting on a simple blouse and looking flawless – until Devika showed up and had totally different ideas. She assured Becca that putting on a lighter color would be better, but not too light. However, the dress came off over Becca's head, which would ruin her hair and maybe her makeup, so the idea was scrapped due to time. Then, Devika wanted her to take off the earrings because they would reflect the light. But when Becca mentioned that Steve had given them to her, Devika changed her mind. Becca was about ready to burst into tears when Devika suggested she try a "younger" hairstyle, offering to do it quickly.

Natasha, having watched the exchange, interjected, "Younger? She's dating a guy in his nineties. I think she looks plenty young enough for him."

Becca smiled gratefully, dabbing at the corner of her eyes to keep her makeup from running.

"Yes, she does," Devika agreed, conceding with a nod that the chastisement had been warranted. "I'm sorry if I've upset you, Becca. I know this is a lot of pressure you're under, but it's my job to make sure this conference goes perfectly. I want to see Steve coming back unharmed just as much as you do. Or almost as much."

They moved onto her speech with Becca regurgitating the outline Devika had given her, although she remained uncertain if the wording felt right in her mouth. She stumbled over herself a few times, and the corners of Devika's eyes tightened like she was holding back a wince. Devika cleaned up her word choices and helped her work the drawing into her speech. She even looked slightly touched when Becca brought it out. At least she was doing one thing right.

"Okay, that's all the time we have," Devika announced. "You'll do fine, and you won't have to answer any questions. Mr. Stark will handle those." She looked to Natasha. "You were made aware you're expected to attend as well?"

This was news to Becca, but Natasha nodded.

"That's good," Devika said, gathering her coat and purse. "You'll all be there. With the obvious exception, of course."

Lost, Becca repeated, "All?"

"The Avengers."

And they were – with the exception of Steve – all at the nearly complete Avengers Tower, formerly Stark Tower. Devika parked beneath the building with a pass, and the elevator brought the three women to a room where the heroes were waiting. Becca hadn't seen most of them in person since the invasion of New York. Clint and Dr. Banner she hadn't seen at all. Thor she'd seen footage of in Greenwich when… whatever that was had happened, but she'd had no idea he was back on Earth. His reappearance must be recent or the media would have hopped all over it. She wondered if he had come exclusively for Steve. She hadn't the faintest idea how he knew what happened on this planet. Tony cropped up on the news regularly, especially when he had been presumed dead, but he was also the only Avenger she had seen in person. He had shown up at the marathon she ran last year.

Seeing everyone together in normal clothing was weird, like seeing an actor from a favorite period film walking down the street in jeans and talking into his phone with his fake accent dropped. She knew in her head that they were people too, but when she thought of the Avengers, she thought of them in full superhero regalia. Thor was an alien prince from a mythological planet, and he was wearing a suit jacket with the collar popped. Like, what?

A man stepped forward, the one face in the room Becca didn't recognize, and shook their hands. "Glad you could make it. We still have fifteen minutes. We're getting everyone settled in." So the man was part of Tony's press team. He moved off with Devika.

A heavy silence fell on the group, one that may have been there before Becca and Natasha had arrived, or perhaps their arrival had made Steve's absence bluntly evident. It occurred to Becca as she looked around that the last time this team had met, half of Manhattan had been decimated. Today they met not because of a villain bent on subjugating the plan – standard superhero fair – but because one of their own had unwittingly become a pawn of the villain. But if anyone was going to bring Steve back, these were the people to do it.

"So," said Clint into the silence. "Now that we're all here, anyone have an actual plan for how we're gonna find Cap?"

Becca shifted the drawing from hand to hand, gripping the edges so her sweaty palms didn't smudge the ink. Was she going to have to talk? She should probably talk. "Um…" Everyone's attention snapped towards her. A room of reports should feel like a breeze after addressing a room of superheroes. Come on, girl. They're people, just like Steve. Tell them about the plan. Wait, she didn't even have a real plan. Shit. "I –" She glanced at Natasha for support. "I mean, we think he's been brainwashed by Hydra, so…"

Tony's face darkened, an expression so uncharacteristic on his face that Becca lost any further words. "The Winter Solider Project," he practically growled.

Thor confided, "This Winter Solider Project has been mentioned, but I am not sure I understand its purpose."

Natasha picked up from there, and Becca was glad to step back and follow along on the conversation. Everyone seemed to have been briefed ahead of time – which made her feel dumb for her totally worthless pronouncement – but they didn't have all the specifics on what each other had been doing. Natasha laid out everything she knew and all the leads she had chased down, some of which Clint had been a part of. Tony had not been idle either. He had located the missing submersible car and had been hunting down members of the Winter Soldier Project, but none had said anything about Steve.

Fifteen minutes seemed to fly by. The conversation cut off when Tony's press agent clapped his hands. "All right everyone. Thanks for your patience. It's time to head downstairs."

They had to break up into two separate elevator trips, gathering outside of a conference room where a small team flocked to them briefly to straighten clothes and hair and offer last minute sips of water. Becca would have chugged a bottle if she wasn't worried about ruining her lip gloss.

"You'll do fine," Devika assured her. "You'll be standing on the end next to Ms. Romanov. Just remember what we talked about."

"Wait until Tony introduces me. Say my bit. Go back in line. No questions."

"Exactly. Deep breaths."

Becca breathed in deep. She could do this.

They filed into the room. It made her feel a little better to see that Dr. Banner at the front of the line seemed uneasy as well. But then, she got a look at what seemed to be a hundred reporters and at least thirty TV cameras and her nerves rocketed back up five or six levels. Okay, just imitate Natasha. Be cool. Be a statue. And stop fidgeting with the drawing. She made herself lower it in a single hand.

Tony strode up to the mic and talked about Steve, but also sort of didn't. He mentioned what was happening in vague terms and assured everyone that the Avengers would have Captain America back soon. He navigated the topic with the shrewdness of an expert politician. His manner came off so easygoing and light, and yet sincere that Becca felt herself relaxing.

It was crazy. Everyone should be freaking out about Captain America going rogue, but most of the reporters seemed willing to believe that the Avengers had the problem under control. She was torn between wanting to believe as well and wanting to wave her arms and tell everyone that they couldn't sit back, they had to keep looking for Steve.

"I know you're all anxious to ask me questions," Tony said after ten minutes straight of talking. "But first Ms. Stroud has something she'd like to say to Cap." He looked over to her and stepped back from the podium.

This was it. Becca walked forward. The drawing trembled in her hand, the soft sound of paper fluttering through air reaching her ears over the click of cameras. She set the drawing on the podium. She was officially live on TV all over the country. No Steve beside her. She wished he was there to wrap a strong arm around her waist, but if he had been at the press conference, there wouldn't be a need for the conference in the first place.

"Hi," she said. Her voice sounded shaky. She cleared her throat. "Um, first I know a lot of people have been hurt, and on behalf of Steve and myself I'd like to say we're very sorry for what's happened. We can't, um, we can't replace what you've lost, but we can do our best to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. I know that the Avengers and many other people are working tirelessly to do just that, and bring Steve home safe. Um…" Stop saying "um" so much, she mentally chastised herself. "Secondly, as Mr. Stark mentioned, I'd like to say something to Steve."

She looked up at the cameras in the back of the room. And blanked. Completely blanked. She couldn't remember a single thing she had discussed with Devika. She got a panicky feeling deep in her gut, which intensified at the rustling of reporters in their chairs. She was blowing it. Her one chance to talk to Steve and she was blowing it. She glanced over her shoulder. Tony shifted, ready to step in. She looked back at the cameras and down at the drawing on the podium.

Steve had given it to her on his fourth or fifth visit. She couldn't remember the exact visit, but she did know he had gifted the drawing to her around Christmas time because the sketch featured the elements from the song "The Twelve Days of Christmas" as ornaments on a tree. She had chosen the drawing partially because of the wonderful memories from that Christmas, but mostly because of the two turtledoves ornament. The turtledoves had their heads pressed together. The female was just sitting pretty. But with a couple added lines, Steve had made the male turtledove look so unbelievably happy to be there. And what Becca wanted more than anything was to remind Steve that if he came back, she could make him that happy again.

She jumped at the hand on her back, letting out startled gasp. Tony had come up behind her, prepared to take over. But she shook her head. "I've got this," she whispered.

He patted her back awkwardly and retreated, looking only too happy to back away from someone who was clearly emotional.

Becca looked to the cameras. Maybe she wasn't as honest as Steve in her life, but it was time to be honest now. To talk with her heart on her sleeve. She imaging him watching the TV in a room like the one she'd been held in, and opened her mouth to speak.

* * *

He looked down at the screen embedded in the table in front of him. His head ached something fierce and his clothing stuck to the cool sweat on his skin from his run and other various exercise routines. The screen had one hundred black boxes in a ten-by-ten square. The boxes disappeared leaving one hundred unique shapes. He looked them over for five seconds before the boxes reappeared. One at a time, a shape popped up at the top of the screen and he tapped the box hiding the corresponding shape. He wasn't sure how long he had been doing these mental exercises. It felt like hours.

When he had matched the last shape, the doctor sitting across from him made a note on the electronic tablet in his hand. The doctor got up and crossed the room to Dr. Henson. She was in charge here. She had been present ever since he had woken up and explained the situation to him. However, she had been distractedly watching something in a corner. She spoke to the doctor, eyes darting back and forth between him and what she was watching.

Eventually, she took the tablet from his hand and dismissed him. She crossed the room, and he could hear that she was watching a video.

"… _which is why it shouldn't take too long before Cap's back with us…"_

Dr. Henson took the seat the other doctor had previously occupied. Setting the electronic tablet on the table beside her, he could see a well-dressed man talking at a podium with a group of others lined up behind him. She moved the video to one side of the screen and slid out an icon that looked like a manila folder. She tapped the folder and it appeared on the screen embedded in the table. Another tap and an image of a child with dark skin appeared.

"Watch," she instructed, so he watched.

She tapped her tablet for a third time. The image became a five second video of the child being shot in the head.

"How does the video make you feel?"

He concentrated, groping for some kind of emotion. None came. He thought something must be wrong with him. "It doesn't make me feel anything, ma'am."

"That's good," Dr. Henson replied with an approving nod. "Emotion will interfere with the effectiveness of your missions."

He figured that made sense, and his slight concern faded.

She showed him another video, this one of a cat being drowned in a tub. "How about this one?"

"It doesn't make me feel anything."

A woman being raped. "Nothing, ma'am."

An old man crying. "Nothing."

Three teenagers kicking around a body. "Nothing."

The short video clips kept coming, and as they did, he began to find himself distracted by the video Dr. Henson seemed so interested in. His gaze would dart to the tablet when the video clip stilled and all the while he listened to this man talking about a missing hero named Captain America.

He didn't even think that Dr. Henson would notice until seconds went by without a new video clip appearing, and he looked up to find her scrutinizing him. With a very deliberate movement, she turned her tablet around and pushed it in front of him.

"How about this one?" she asked.

He stared down at the screen. A woman was at the podium now. The man had called her Ms. Stroud. She had scars along her throat, lots of them. Her voice had been trembling before, but as she turned her gaze on the camera, she didn't look nervous. The camera zoomed in on her so she appeared to be looking right at him.

" _Steve, you probably don't remember me, but you need to listen. Wherever you are and whatever you've gone through, you can fight it. You know what they're telling you is wrong. You know you're a better person than this. You've always made the right choice, and what Hydra is making you do is not the right choice. You know it. They've taken your memories away, but they can't take away who you are."_

He touched the side of his head where the headache seemed to originate from. His memories had been removed, but she couldn't be talking about him. He had volunteered to have his memory removed. Dr. Henson had told him so. She had to put him through a real rigorous treatment because the process hadn't taken all the way the first time, which was why his head hurt.

" _But I know remembering that is hard, so I'm gonna to try to help you. Look. You drew me this."_ The camera shot widened for a moment, and then focused in a piece of paper in Mr. Stroud's had on which had been drawn a Christmas tree. _"In case you're just listening, it's a Christmas tree with ornaments from 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.' The turtledove ornament is my favorite. It's down here."_ The paper shifted in her hands, and the camera found the ornament that she pointed to with the tip of one finger. _"It reminds me of how happy we were on that Christmas. Can you remember? We went to my friend Amy's ugly sweater party wearing matching sweaters with those ridiculous pink snowmen. And you were so outraged that people just wear ugly sweaters once and give them away, so you kept wearing that sweater all week."_

The camera widened again, showing Ms. Stroud with a big smile on her lips. She had a nice smile, the kind that would make others comfortable. _"Then, we hopped to my friend Kellyn's party, and there was an eggnog chugging contest which you totally won. I let out the loudest eggnog burp on the subway afterwards. I was so embarrassed, but you could not stop laughing. Then, we changed and went to this church you go to when you're here. I can't remember the name, but it's got those two big bell towers. They had a Christmas mass with this choir that sang absolutely gorgeously. I was almost afraid to sing along with everyone until I realized you're about as tone deaf as I am. Or maybe you just didn't want me to feel bad._

" _It was late when we got home, but I had asked Ally to fill up the stockings and put the presents under our little fake tree we have. I was so shocked when I realized you'd given her presents to add to the pile. You're not very good at hiding things from me. I put on 'It's A Wonderful Life' while we opened presents. I think my favorite was a signed collector's edition blu-ray of 'Pulp Fiction,' which I'm still not sure how you tracked down or got someone to part with. I don't know what you liked best, but you did seem pretty fond of this book series I bought you with all the important events in world history over the past one-hundred years. You blew through in, like, four days._

" _You said we should go to bed since we had to get up early to go to my parents' in the morning, but I wanted you to see the end of 'It's A Wonderful Life.' So of course I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, it was the very end of the movie. You'd pulled the blanket from the back of the couch over us, and probably decided to wait to move me in case I woke up and insisted we finish the movie, which I would've. But when I looked up, you weren't even watching the movie. You were looking down at m-me."_ Her voice cracked, her chest rising as she took in a deep breath. Her eyes had taken on a bright shine of tears. _"And you looked so happy."_ She sniffed and laughed. _"God, you're supposed to be the sappy one!"_ She sniffed again and rubbed a hand under her nose, her smile crumpling. _"Please come home, Steve. Please, please come home. I miss you so much."_ A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, running down her cheek.

It hit him, slammed right into his chest. Rage. Hot, clawing rage. His hands seemed to form into fists of their own accord. He slammed one down hard enough that the table screen cracked. The door flew open, feet thudding inside.

" _I love you."_ Ms. Stroud back away from the podium and hurried offstage, and the same man as before stepped forward to take her place.

The video stopped at a tap from Dr. Henson's finger. She was holding a hand up to stop the soldiers who had entered the room, her eyes locked on him. "How do you feel, Captain?"

"Angry," he replied in a strained voice. The rage inside of him roared, flooding him limbs so they vibrated with energy.

"Why?"

"I don't…." His head was splitting open. He pressed a hand to the side of it. Ms. Stroud's last words echoed against his skull forming a cacophony, and strangely each echo had its own inflection, its own timing, like he had heard the words more than once. "I don't know."

Dr. Henson folded her hands and eyed him. "I do. This woman works with the enemy. She has even killed one of our own. So I'm going to send you on a mission, Captain. One on which you can redeem yourself, and send our enemies a message."

At her mention of a mission, the rage inexplicably vanished. Ms. Stroud's voice quieted. He exhaled in relief, his fists uncurling. "Of course, ma'am. What's the objective?"

Dr. Henson placed her palms on the table and pulled outwards, focusing the image on Ms. Stroud's retreating back. "Eliminate your target."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I realize this is the second chapter in a row with a short Steve PoV, but more is coming. See you next week!**


	12. So Close, And Yet

The door shut, cutting off the snap of cameras and the murmuring of reporters. Becca sniffled as she wiped her eyes on the back on her hands. She had made it through enough to not feel like a complete failure, but still. She was embarrassed that she hadn't been able to hold it together for the entirety of the press conference.

Her off-the-cuff speech had been going so well until she started thinking about how happy she and Steve had been and how easy everything had seemed on that Christmas. It had struck her how much their lives had gone to shit. True, things weren't usually as simple as that Christmas had been. Relationships were complicated and the long weeks apart on top of the added pressures of dating a superhero made for further complications, but they had made the relationship work because they were a team. A slightly dysfunctional team, but a team nonetheless.

Now Hydra had taken her partner away – a situation they would undoubtedly do their best to make permanent – and she just really, really wanted him back. She wasn't meant to stand behind press conference podiums or spend long nights strategizing or attempt dangerous escapes from government buildings. This wasn't her role; it was Steve's. And no wonder he struggled sometimes because she had been in this world for all of two months and felt ready to snap under the weight. It ashamed her to think how relieved she would be to shift the weight back onto his shoulders. But no, if – when Steve was himself again, she was going to support him one-hundred and ten percent. That's what she was good at.

Devika entered the room, and Becca wiped her eyes again. "I'm sorry," she apologized, embarrassed. "I shouldn't have run off."

"You did fine," Devika assured her. She pulled a tissue from her purse. "You take this, and I'll take this." She slid Steve's drawing from Becca's right hand and tucked the tissue in its place. "That was a very heartfelt speech."

"It wasn't what you planned."

"No. But with Steve as a client, I've gotten used to having most of my advice ignored when it comes to speeches. And at least you didn't bring up any unplanned hot button issues."

Becca blew her nose. "So I guess I don't owe you a drink. Although I kinda feel like I owe you one anyway."

"I'll take a rain check." Devika handed her several more tissues with a consoling look. "I'm sure he heard you."

"I hope so."

As they waited out the remainder of the press conference, Devika pulled out her iPad to monitor the response and handle e-mails regarding her other clients. Becca cleaned up her tears as best as she could and contemplated what would happen next. She hadn't any plans beyond the conference. Did she return with Natasha to the small apartment? Or would Natasha simply drop her there and return to work alongside her fellow Avengers? Neither option appealed to Becca. Speaking at this press conference had been her idea, and she meant to see it through.

If she had made an impact, if Steve reached out to her or if Hydra did, she wanted to be available, not tucked away in an apartment where they would have to resort to some kind of public display to get her attention. She had been mutilated on TV in an attempt to get Steve's attention. She refused to allow any of her loved ones to suffer a similar fate. And if Steve broke free, his time might be limited. She needed to be somewhere he could access quickly. Her apartment? She could ask Ally to stay with her boyfriend out of harm's way. Only the location seemed too obvious if Hydra came looking.

Assuming her speech had even been an annoying blip on their radar. Assuming Steve had even heard it. For all she knew, he was being kept away from all media outlets, and Hydra agents were laughing themselves sick over her pathetic attempt to reach him. She didn't know how this brainwashing thing worked, but if she had been in charge, any situation that might spark Captain America's memories to come back would be avoided at all costs. After all, Steve had broken through Bucky's brainwashing.

The Avengers filed out of the conference room twenty minutes later. Becca was worried that her quick exit would make for some awkward tension or, worse, pitying glances, but no one said anything or even really looked at her with the exception of Natasha who gave her a brief, assuring nod.

Tony's press team made a reappearance followed by a small gaggle of photographers.

Mostly the photographers seemed interested in getting pictures of the Avengers. Unsurprising. Becca was, however, asked to stand in a few photos, both with the superhero team and on her own. One of the photographers requested she hold up the drawing Steve had given her, and several of the others took the opportunity to grab the shot as well. Although she felt strange standing in front of cameras without Steve's arm around her, at least these photographers didn't have the frenzied, oppressive energy of a mob of paparazzi.

Once the photographers had finished, the head of Tony's press team thanked everyone for their time. He looked to Tony, who told the rest of the group that they could head on upstairs. Becca was hesitant to force her way into an Avengers meeting, but they were obviously going to be talking about Steve. She wanted to know the game plan, and if she waited for an invite, someone might decide to send her to the sidelines.

"Thanks for all your help," she said to Devika, holding out a hand to shake. "I'll keep in touch, and um, e-mail me what I owe you, okay? I'll get to it when I can."

Devika patted her wrist. "No rush. I'm not starving. Get everything else in order, and I'll give you the bill when you buy me that drink."

"Sounds good."

Becca hastened to follow the Avengers to the elevator. She didn't get so much as a sideways glance. Maybe being nervous had been silly because, so far, everyone had treated her like she belonged here.

The elevator took them up to near the top of the tower. The space was large and open with wall-to-wall windows like she remembered, but that's all that matched from recollections of her brief visit during the invasion. The wood paneling and plush carpeting she remembered had been replaced with glass and dark, sleek floors. Very modern, less homey – especially since no furniture seemed to have been brought in yet.

The missing furniture was moved into the tower in an on-and-off trickle throughout the afternoon. Not everything, at least she assumed not everything, but couches and chairs, a coffee table. An interior decorator would likely come by at some point in the future to rearrange the items, but for now, everything got put in the most convenient location. The meeting started on the floor and moved as the furniture got set up.

They started by laying out everything that they knew, the one part of the conversation to which Becca could actually contribute. She recounted everything from the day Steve had disappeared down to the most minute details. Those details could end up being useful or they could not, but talking with the Avengers _felt_ like being useful, much more so than staring at laptop screens.

Then, they moved onto brainstorming ideas for finding Steve.

This was where Becca would've hit a wall, but the resources and ideas thrown out were encouraging. For example, while the press conference had been airing, J.A.R.V.I.S. followed live feeds on the internet, searching for people watching from blocked or suspicious IP addresses. Or something along those lines. Becca didn't understand a lot of the technobabble, but getting the gist was good enough. Clint had a contact in the NSA who was working on finding out who would've had access to General Alexander's schedule. Maria Hill joined the meeting. Apparently she worked for Tony now, but Becca remembered Steve telling her that the former agent had been high up in S.H.I.E.L.D., so she might be able to open some needed doors.

There was also talk about what would happen if they did locate Steve. Dr. Banner had what few notes existed on the Winter Soldier Project, and between those findings, Steve's healing capabilities, and what Steve had said about breaking through to Bucky, he deemed it likely that the effects were reversible. And everyone seemed confident that as a whole they would be able to overpower him and any Hydra conspirators.

So the main problem was finding him.

Becca tuned in and out of the conversation, propped on one arm to keep herself awake. It was hard keep paying attention for hours when she had nothing to contribute, even when the conversation focused on her brainwashed-assassin boyfriend. Especially when she hadn't slept much the previous night.

She noticed Thor staring out of one of the windows, looking on the verge of shutting his eyes, too. He had offered some opinions, but Hydra and intel gathering and espionage didn't seem of much interest. From what she recalled – because once she had found out that Norse gods were real, she'd googled the shit out of the mythology – Thor had fought in a lot of battles, so that would probably be his role if and when the time came to fight one. He had certainly seemed to liven up during the speculation on what weapons Hydra had gotten a hold of and how any field agents might've been trained. Plus, he straight up looked like he could roll all of Hydra into a ball, crush them between his bare hands, and beat the remnants into a pulp with his hammer.

Thor must have felt her watching because his glaze flicked from the window to land on her. Becca smiled reflexively. She had been staring. Awkward. But he just smiled back. As a handsome prince, he must be used to being gawked at, but she looked away.

Natasha came back to the group, having excused herself to answer a phone call, and set the phone on the table. "This is Sam Wilson. He's been helping me follow some leads."

" _Hey."_

Becca lifted her head. She hadn't heard anything about Sam, except that Natasha had let him know they made it out of D.C. safe.

"Tell them what you told me," said Natasha.

" _Okay, so I've been asking around about the two sergeants that went missing. One of my friends in the army has a friend who knew Sergeant Yeaboah. She said that a couple of months before he went missing, someone came around asking him to join some kind of scientific research program that tested soldiers' memories."_

Cold trickled down Becca's back. As far as she was concerned, this piece of evidence was the confirmation they had been looking for. Steve had definitely been brainwashed.

Clint leaned forward in his chair. "Did he describe the person he talked to?"

" _Not that my friend said. He's working on getting into contact with his friend, but she's currently deployed in Korea."_

Tony tapped at a see-through tablet-like device in his hand. "I'm not seeing anything like this on the logs for his base. J.A.R.V.I.S., run through the surveillance footage starting three months before he disappeared. See if you find anything."

"Already working on it, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. "I will construct a database of everyone Sergeant Yeaboah came into contact with."

Sam answered questions the group had, and Becca listened to the answers, trying to parse out anything important. This sounded like a good lead, especially since everyone seemed interested. If they could find the person who had brought in this sergeant, they would hopefully lead right back to Steve. She clasped her hands together eagerly. Progress.

When Sam had confided all he knew, Natasha turned off the speakerphone and held it out to Becca. "He wanted to talk to you."

Surprised, Becca took the phone and wandered away from the group. "Hi. It's Becca."

" _Hey, Becca. How're you doing?_ " Sam asked.

"Good, I guess. How're you?"

" _Can't complain. I saw the news broadcast today."_

She blushed at the thought of anyone seeing her burst into tears and run offstage. Not quite as bad a scene as the torture videos had been, but still not something she'd prefer people watching. "Oh."

" _I thought it was really nice, those things you said."_

"Um, thanks." Becca ascended a short flight of stands and shut herself in what looked like a lab-in-progress.

" _But you're sure you're doing okay? 'Cause I know if I'd been shut up in an apartment for two months, I'd be climbing the walls."_

She laughed. "I mean, it wasn't exactly fun, but I'm out now."

" _How about your injuries?"_

"Healing." Becca touched the side of her neck and forced herself not to scratch. She had stopped wearing the neck brace last week, except at night because the hard plastic prevented her from scratching in her sleep. "Mostly everything's just scars now."

" _No problems sleeping or anything?"_

She thought of the sweaty nightmares which woke her up on occasion. And the long periods alone when she felt like someone was watching her, so she shut all the blinds in the apartment. And the way her skin crawled when she touched a knife, causing her to tear into food with her teeth instead.

"I think I'll need a trip to the chiropractor after sleeping on hard floors for so long, but at least I had a sleeping bag."

Sam was quiet for a few moments. _"You know, we all go through things that make us feel guilty, angry, sad, scared. Sometimes that comes out. And you've been through plenty."_

'I know that,' Becca almost snapped. She wasn't ashamed exactly. She'd been through a lot of fucked up shit. If she hadn't been feeling anything, she would be more concerned. But…

"I can't think about myself right now."

" _It's not gonna take any longer to find Steve if you talk to someone."_

"Yeah," Becca agreed. "But I'm holding myself together with chewing gum, a bit of tape, and my mission to find him right now, and if I talk to anyone, I might lose it so – so it'll have to wait."

Sam sighed. _"All right. Just take care of yourself."_

"I will. And thanks for helping with Steve. I know you didn't even know him long before the shit hit the fan, and it's really nice of you."

" _Glad to help."_

"Well, thanks again, and um… Yeah, bye."

" _Bye."_

Becca ended the call and lowered the phone. That someone Steve had met only recently would go out of his way spoke to what a good person he was. She didn't get a sense that Sam was hoping for a return favor. Rather, he was genuinely nice and helpful. Between the Avengers and others like Sam and Agent Hill, surely they could find Steve before the situation escalated.

She looked down through the glass walls in time to see Pepper Potts coming out of the elevator with her hands full of bags. One carton from inside a bag, and Becca could tell they were full of Asian take-out food. As cartons were opened and passed around, Pepper put a hand on Tony's shoulder and he reached up to brush her fingers absentmindedly.

Such a small touch. Becca probably wouldn't have even have noticed at any other time, but in this moment she watched with envy. When Tony said something with a wide grin that made Pepper roll her eyes, the envy tightened its hold, squeezing so tightly that tears sprung up. She retreated out of sight and took several deep breathes. She'd have Steve back again soon.

The sound of heels alerted Becca that she was no longer alone. Natasha stood at the other end of the lab, and since she could be dead quiet on her feet, she must have wanted Becca to know she was coming. Becca was grateful because it gave her an extra incentive to pull herself back together.

"There's food," Natasha informed her. "Chinese."

"Okay. I'm coming." Becca walked over and handed back the phone. "I didn't know you'd been working with Sam."

"Here and there."

Natasha hesitated and got this look that made Becca think she wanted to say more, but she didn't. Instead, she touched Becca's arm. Coming from Natasha, the gesture was practically a hug. Becca couldn't even remember a time Natasha had touched her outside of handing something to her, pulling out her stitches, and that one time she had actually hugged her to fool the cops. Natasha turned away, opening the door after a mere second or two, but Becca needed those seconds to recover from her shock.

Absurdly, the brief gesture made Becca feel like crying more than a hug would've, but she held back the tears. The amount she had cried in the past months bordered on ridiculous, and she didn't need the Avengers seeing her with glassy eyes again. She put on a smile and went to rejoin the group.

After dinner and a final wrap up, it was time to put plans into action. Which meant that Becca had absolutely nothing to do. She stood with everyone else and looked around, but not even Natasha glanced her way. The table was a mess, so she decided to clean up.

She had stacked four of the food cartons when Tony stopped her and had her follow him down a short glass staircase. He brought her to a room, a bedroom judging from the massive bed stacked with pillows.

"This'll be Cap's room, but it's yours for now. There'll be more to it eventually, but I just had everyone's beds rushed. And there should be…" Tony snatched up a white box from on top of the comforter and held it out.

Inside was a tablet just like the one he had, a seemingly empty frame until Becca – at Tony's direction – pressed a button on the right side. She held her hand over the center and it scanned her hand, opening to a screen with all kinds of icons.

"It's basically like an iPad, only better since I made it," said Tony. He pointed at one of the icons. "You can make calls with that right there. I was able to sync all your contacts. And I pulled most of the programs from your laptop. You know the F.B.I.'s been keeping it? They're in for a surprise next time they try to log on. Anyway, this can do more than your laptop could."

Becca stared at the generous gift. The tablet had to be worth more than all her electronics combined. Not only that, but Tony had taken the time to fill it with information from her devices. Tony used to just be this pompous asshole celebrity to her, but the more she saw of him, the more she realized he wasn't that bad at all.

Instinct told her return the tablet with the protest that the gift was too much, but the desire to reach out to her family and friends overrode instinct.

"Thank you," she breathed. "This is amazing."

Tony waved like it was nothing. "I had some free time this morning. J.A.R.V.I.S. was taking his time locating Cap's getaway car."

JA.R.V.I.S. remarked, "Yes, six and a half minutes to locate anything remotely vehicle shaped in the entirely of the United States and identify the missing car. I was clearly sleeping on the job, sir."

Becca peered up at the ceiling. Hearing a disembodied A.I. voice was going to take some getting used to. She pulled her attention back to Tony. "Well, I appreciate it. And please, let me know if there's something I can do to help you guys find Steve. Even if it's something small. I really want to find him as soon as we can."

"Sure." Tony looked uncomfortable and began making a hasty retreat, backing towards the door. "Probably won't be anything, but sure. Ask J.A.R.V.I.S. if you need something."

Left to her own devices, Becca kicked off her heels and hopped onto the bed. She tossed her purse by her feet and carefully set Steve's drawing beside it. She called her parents first, then Ally, then Skyped with her brother. By then it had gotten super late, and Seth told her to get to sleep. He hung up so she couldn't argue. She thought about trying someone else, but she was tired and would likely have all day tomorrow. She took a trip into the private bathroom she'd discovered and showered. Without any spare change of clothes, she got back into her underwear to sleep in. At home she wouldn't have minded sleeping nude, but she wasn't going to risk one of the Avengers walking in.

With much swearing and one toe-stubbing kick, she pushed the large bed over to the huge window. The view was worth the effort. She looked at the lights of Manhattan through slitted eyes until she fell asleep.

* * *

Becca woke in pitch black, which wasn't a concern until she remembered where she was and that she had moved her bed next to a window. She cringed beneath her covers, petrified that something terrible had happened.

"J.A.R.V.I.S.?" she whispered.

"Yes, Ms. Stroud?" J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, his voice so loud in the stillness that she flinched.

"Why is so dark?"

"I activated the windows to block out the sun so the light wouldn't wake you."

"Oh." Not another alien invasion or anything. Just more fancy technology. Scared over the action of a thoughtful A.I. Becca sighed. She had gotten so paranoid. "Could you make it light again please?"

The windows brightened. Not like a shade being drawn, but like murky water gradually becoming clear. Becca sat up and stretched. It must be well into the morning already. "Thanks."

"Would you prefer I didn't activate the windows? I detected an increase in your heart rate."

Okay, that was kind of creepy. Lord help the world if A.I. ever tried to take over like in the movies. "Um… no, it's fine. But could you make them clear at eight am?" She usually woke up around then, and if she wasn't awake, the sunlight would do the trick.

"Of course."

"Awesome. Thanks."

Becca sat up and noticed a duffle bag by the door. It looked vaguely familiar. She slipped out of bed and braced herself for a cool hardwood floor. She set her feet down. The floor was actually room temperature, even a little warm. She had basically moved into a sci-fi apartment.

The bag had a note on it from Natasha. She had visited Becca's apartment last night while out, and Ally had packed this bag. Which was why the duffel bag looked familiar; it was Ally's overnight bag. Natasha also mentioned that Tony had programmed her number into the fancy tablet. Between the bag and the note, Natasha's message was clear.

Don't leave the tower.

Becca huffed. She had traded one cage for a nicer cage. At least she had some of her own stuff this time.

Ally had jammed the duffel bag full of Becca's clothes, bathroom products, and a few goodies like a couple of blu-rays and a bag of ginger snaps. She changed into clean clothes and had J.A.R.V.I.S. point her to the kitchen. She didn't run into anyone else on the way. They must have all left early. She supposed she couldn't be too annoyed at being left behind so soon since their disappearance meant they were out looking for Steve.

The refrigerator had been packed with food, mostly pre-made as the kitchen lacked any cooking utensils. She microwaved some waffles and poured herself cooling Starbucks coffee into a styrofoam cup. She ate standing at the island and retreated to her bedroom to make calls. Most of her friends weren't answering, being at work. The thought prompted her to call her own workplace and see whether or not she still had a job.

Which she didn't. Her manager sounded very sympathetic, and informed her that he'd put her on saved vacation days for about a month before hiring someone else. It was frustrating, but Becca couldn't blame the company for firing her. She had disappeared without putting in a phone call and copywriting was a tough business with a lot of talented people vying for a few jobs. Her manger promised a good recommendation, and so she thanked him for his time and added "finding a job" to the mental list of tasks for getting her life back in order.

With nothing else to do, she decided to wander around the couple of floors which appeared to be part of the Avengers living area, and discovered she hadn't been as abandoned as she'd previously thought. Tony and Dr. Banner were setting up electronic equipment. The task looked important, so she waved without interrupting and moved on. Thor was in the main room where they'd all met last night, standing by one of the windows and looking supremely bored.

Although she wasn't sure how one started conversations with Norse god princes, Becca walked up to him and gave it a try. She asked when he'd come back and found out that his reappearance had nothing to do with Steve, but rather he'd given up his claim on the throne and had been living with his "lady," Jane, which… didn't even sound like a thing that happened outside of fantasy romance novels, but then neither did talking to the Norse god of thunder. She asked a little bit about Jane, who she vaguely knew as being a scientist. According to Thor, Jane was on a research trip, which must be why he was just hanging around. Becca knew he had to get questioned all the time, but she couldn't help asking about Asgard. And when he didn't seem bothered by her inquires, she asked _a lot_ about Asgard and the other realms he'd visited.

It wasn't until the second day that Becca discovered there was more to Thor's continued presence than just a lack of places to be. Tony and Dr. Banner had gone out somewhere. None of her friends were available beyond texting, and knowing that Thor would have nothing else to do, she thought they could do nothing together. The topic of what she had done for work came up, and she decided to show him how she made advertisements. For fun, she took a picture of Mjonir and used began creating an ad for the hammer.

"Okay, so the target demographic is going to be men around fifty I'd say, because they're the ones most likely to be collectors with money to burn." Becca centered the picture and used an editing program to erase the background. She selected the various color palettes and had the program suggest colors which would flatter Mjonir. "And you always need some kind of hook, some catchy slogan. We need something tough, something awe-inspiring. These guys will want to feel like they could pick up Mjonir and become the next god of thunder. Hmmm." While she thought, she found an image of a lovely display case and superimposed it over the hammer. Since the ad was for fun, she didn't have to worry about using copyrighted pictures. "I feel like I always think better with food. I've got a bag of ginger snaps. Have you had those?"

"I do not believe I have," said Thor, eyeing the image on her tablet with bemusement.

"Okay." She set the tablet down on a coffee table. "I'll get them. They're just in my room."

Thor stood. "I shall accompany you."

"No, no. I'll just be a second. I can bring them out here."

But Thor took the lead. Initially, Becca assumed it was some kind of princely chivalry thing. But when they reached her room, she changed her mind. Thor didn't come into the room. Rather he stood in the doorway, which could've been another chivalry thing – not entering a lady's bedroom without her permission – except when she grabbed the ginger snaps and looked up, she noticed that Thor was staring down the hallway.

For the past two days, movers and designers had been making periodic appearances in the apartment. She had only seen glimpses of them. When they had come into the main room to rearrange furniture and set up the bar, Becca had suggested a trip to the kitchen so as not to be in the way and Thor had agreed at once. And as she watched him watching the movers, she recalled how he had fallen in step behind her. She hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but upon reflection it was strange that he would fall back when he had definitely been in front of her and knew the way to the kitchen. It was almost like he was blocking her from the movers. And now he stood at her door, looking towards the sound of movers at the other end of the hall. His posture wasn't threatening, but the way he held Mjonir in a tight grip was.

The rest of the Avengers hadn't left Thor behind because they didn't have any use for him yet. They had left him behind because he did have a use right here.

He was her bodyguard.

Becca wasn't sure if she should be miffed that the Avengers thought she needed a bodyguard when it would've been simpler to not have movers come in and let Thor do something else, or if she should be concerned that they thought she needed a bodyguard as powerful as Thor. She settled on both.

"Did you volunteer to babysit me?" she asked. "Or did you draw the short straw?"

When Thor frowned in puzzlement, Becca looked pointedly toward the sound of the movers. His face twisted in a momentary wince.

"You were not meant to find out. Lady Romanov said that you would be displeased with the arrangement."

"Lady Romanov was not wrong." She folded her arms. "I mean, it's nice of you to look out for me, and I'm definitely safer with you around, but isn't this boring for you?"

"It is not enthralling," he admitted. "But I have learned that I must work on my patience. And it is an honor to protect a fellow warrior's lady."

Becca lifted an eyebrow. "Tch. All I do it pepper you with questions and make you food."

"It seems a fair exchange. I did quite enjoy those…. Bagel Bits."

"Bagel Bites."

"Yes."

She shook her head as she scooted past him with the bag of ginger snaps. The god of thunder didn't mind protecting her from a potential Hydra attack because she had made him Bagel Bites. Her life was so weird. "I'll make you some pizza rolls tonight. If you liked Bagel Bites, these are gonna blow your mind."

Now that Becca knew precautions were being taken in case the movers and designers turned out to be Hydra – although she assumed they had all been background checked – she found herself actively avoiding them. Either she stayed in her room with the doors locked or she asked J.A.R.V.I.S. for the all clear before going to hang out with Thor. Despite her efforts to keep him occupied, she could tell that Thor was going a little stir crazy, which was putting her more on edge.

She kept telling herself that everything would be fine. All the Avengers would probably circle back within a week or so if they didn't find anything. Hydra hadn't tried anything on her, so it was unlikely anything would happen. When the Avengers regrouped, she would quietly insist to Natasha that something should be found for Thor to do besides sit around the tower, and while they were at it, she'd like something to do.

It was while lying on her bed, refreshing her e-mail for the hundredth time and wishing for those stupid surveillance laptops back so she could at least pretend to be useful when everything went from fine to definitely not fine.

 _Bang!_ The tower shuddered slightly, and Becca stat bolt upright. What the fuck was that? Oh my god, Hydra had attacked the tower. But when she looked out the window, she saw a cloud of fire and smoke just in the periphery, and it wasn't coming from the tower. She leapt out of bed and bolted up to the main floor to get a better look.

Smoke billowed out of an area two, four, six blocks down. Thor was at the windows in full superhero attire, pacing like a tiger on a leash.

"J.A.R.V.I.S.!" Becca called. "What's going on?"

"There is an armed group attacking the hospital on 39th," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.

She whirled to Thor. "Go. Go, go, go, go, go."

His forehead furrowed. "If this is meant to be a diversion, I –"

"I don't care if it's a fucking diversion," she groaned, exasperated. Even from here, that looked like some major destruction. And if this wasn't an attempt to lure Thor away and he stayed with her, more people could get hurt for absolutely no reason. "Just go!"

"I will protect Ms. Stroud should any attempt be made to enter the tower," J.A.R.V.I.S. promised. " And there is an exit to the roof through the lab."

His mouth setting in determination, Thor spun his hammer, the wind causing strands of Becca's hair to fly into her face. The lab door seemed to open of its own accord, and Thor flew through it. Moments later, she watched him streak through the air right for the hospital, and behind him trailed three silver shapes. She squinted. They looked like Tony's Iron Man suit.

"Um…"

"Mr. Stark has built several drones to aid in times of crisis," J.A.R.V.I.S. supplied helpfully.

"Oh, okay." She did feel better knowing Thor had backup. It would take a lot to bring him down, but better safe than sorry.

Becca took Thor's place pacing anxiously in front of the windows. Another blast and the tower shuddered again. She hoped Thor was okay, and that most of the people in the hospital made it out. What did this terrorist group even want with a hospital?

"Ms. Stroud," said J.A.R.V.I.S. suddenly. "I must ask you to please take the stairs down to the next level."

"What? Why?"

"There is an unidentified aircraft approaching the tower."

Her stomach dropped. So the group was a diversion. She backed away from the windows and paused. "Is Steve inside?"

"I can't be certain."

"Well, how many men are in the aircraft?"

"Eight."

Becca swallowed hard. Eight was a lot of Hydra agents. But if one of them was Steve and he saw her and turned on them, he could make it out. He'd be free. She hesitated.

"Ms. Stroud, please take the stairs."

"Just hold on. When they land on the roof, tell me if one of them is Steve."

"I must insist. They are currently scanning the building for a heat signature, and I am attempting to block them, but I believe I may have been a moment too late."

She still didn't move. She had to know if he was there. This could be her only chance. The sound of the approaching aircraft grew. It sounded like a helicopter. Then, she heard blasts, repulsor blasts and gunfire.

When next J.A.R.V.I.S. spoke, his volume was amplified. "Ms. Stroud, they are not attempting to land on the roof."

But Becca knew that already because the helicopter had come into view of the windows. One drone circled around it like an angry wasp. It shot a repulsor blast at the whirring blades, and a shield flew out of the helicopter to deflect the blast in the nick of time. Steve was there. She took an involuntary step forward before realizing that the helicopter was turning so the front, and, more importantly, the guns were aligned with the windows.

She raced for the stairs. On the second step gunfire rattled through the space along with the sound of glass shattering. Becca pitched forward with a shriek. Her face slammed into the railing and she tasted blood as she tumbled down the stairs. She lay at a crumbled heap at the bottom, disoriented with her ears ringing.

She had to… had to… Becca got to her feet and swayed. Warm blood filled her nose. Had to go. No. She had to get to Steve. She turned and gripped the railing, heading back up the short flight.

And there he was. She couldn't help it. She smiled. "Steve."

Cold metal arms wrapped around her waist. Becca gasped and looked over her shoulder. One of the drones had her. "No. No, J.A.R.V.I.S. make it let go!" she cried.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Stroud," said J.A.R.V.I.S.' voice from inside the drone.

She pushed desperately at the drone's arms, but looked at her boyfriend. "Steve, I'm Becca. Don't you remember me?" Steve did not look like he remembered her. He strode towards her with a blank expression, shield raised. "Steve, please. You have to try and remember." She could feel the vibrations of the drone, like it was gearing up for something. She struggled harder. "Let. Go. Of. Me!"

And she saw it for the briefest second in Steve's face. His eyebrows contracted slightly, his mouth turned down. He looked confused. Becca gasped. Yes! She had gotten to him. The next second, his jaw tensed and went from looking confused to looking pissed as hell, but she had gotten through to him.

Before she could try anything else, the drone blasted backwards with incredible speed, dragging her along for the ride. She screamed at the unexpected movement and the shield spinning straight at them. A door slammed shut, and the shield embedded in the glass.

The drone lifted an arm, and Becca clutched the one left holding her tightly, afraid she would slip. A blast shot out, accompanied by more breaking glass. The second arm folded around her again, and they sped out through an empty window frame. Looking at the ground hundreds of feet below, she nearly got sick. Instead, she turned her gaze up towards the tower, and saw a flash of red and silver streaking towards it. She followed the streak and mumbled, "Keep him there, Thor."

* * *

He yanked his shield out of the door and slammed it into the glass. The door shattered easily, but the hallway beyond was empty. He ran down to the empty window frame and stared at his target growing smaller. They might still be able to catch her. He sprinted back towards the rest of his team.

"All right, let's –" He stopped when he spotted the man hurtling toward them through the sky. Dr. Henson had briefed him on this man, Thor, an alien from another planet and an enemy. If Thor approached, he was not to engage, but retreat. He ground his teeth. The very thought of retreating bothered him, and he itched for a fight, needed a fight. The rage inside him roared in agreement.

"Captain," Sergeant Alile said. "You must go."

He looked around at the soldiers, his men. Dead men. Each had a poison capsule in their teeth that they were to swallow after they had provided enough of a diversion to allow his escape. But they were his men, and his responsibility. It didn't seem right to him to let them die without a fight.

Thor slammed into the helicopter and it pitched sideways. Several of the soldiers fired, but the bullets ricocheted off his armor. Thor swung his hammer in a blur, dark clouds gathering above and swirling in the same movement.

He had to stop Thor before he brought the hammer down. He sprinted straight for the helicopter and leapt out into the air. He caught Thor around the arm, breaking the hammer swing. Using the momentum from his jump, he brought his shield up in an arc. The metal should have at least broken Thor's spine at the neck. Instead, the alien smacked roughly against the helicopter with a grunt.

"Captain Rogers," Thor growled. "You are not yourself."

He took another swing, but it faltered as Thor let go of the helicopter and they fell. He attempted to maneuver to get Thor in a headlock, but the alien grabbed his shield. His arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as he fought to keep a hold of it.

"I am your ally."

He saw the hammer begin to swing and pulled back on Thor's arm to stop the motion. He grabbed the side of Thor's face, thinking that he might be able to snap his neck if he turned hard enough. Thor resisted, grabbing him and yanking him from his back.

"We fought in this place side by side. Do you not remember?"

He blinked and saw a hole in the sky above Thor's head and a towering column of blue, but he blinked again and it was gone.

Suddenly, Thor tugged him and rolled, reversing their positions. He barely had time to see concrete before they slammed into the sidewalk. His jaw cracked against Thor's armor and spots of white overtook his vision. His body screamed in pain upon impact, though it would have been worse had Thor not been beneath him.

He pulled himself out of the crater with some difficulty, collapsing onto the sidewalk. A few of his ribs felt broken and he could barely move the wrist of the hand in which he loosely gripped his shield. He turned his head to look at the crater. Thor's eyes were open, and he appeared to be struggling to pull himself up.

He attempted to roll onto his side, but collapsed. There were people watching. However, none approached. A strong wind seemed to be keeping them back.

Two men appeared from nothing, and the crowd gasped. They lifted him into the airplane, which he was supposed to have jumped into while his men held Thor at bay, an airplane which had reflectors so as to remain invisible. He lay on the floor of the plane thinking of the hole in the sky and the two adversaries who had given him a name.

"I take it the mission wasn't successful?" asked one of the men who had pulled him into the plane.

"No," he croaked.

The man shook his head looking grim. But despite the flares of pain all over his body and the failure of his mission, he did not feel the same grimness because he might have made a single gain on the trip. His name. Dr. Henson had warned him of the dangers of regaining his name, but he wasn't so sure. Captain Steve Rogers sounded right to him. He repeated the name in his head over the course of the flight so he wouldn't forget it.

He was able to walk himself inside, but with about the same effort it had taken to haul himself from the crater. Dr. Henson radiated disapproval as he and the others lined up. The effort of standing at attention had him sweating.

"You failed in your mission," Dr. Henson stated.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I take full responsibility for the failure of the mission."

She surveyed him as sweat dripped across his face and down his back. He held his shield in the wrong hand, but even without a damaged wrist, the hand trembled.

Finally, she snapped, "Report."

"We approached the tower as soon as we had confirmation that Thor was inside the hospital. I was made aware that he was accompanied by three robots, but chose to go forward. Sergeant Row did a scan of the floors and found brief traces of a heat signature. Two robots assaulted the copter and were eliminated. We created an entrance by blowing out the windows. I left the copter with my team. Becca was –"

"Stop." Dr. Henson's eyes had narrowed. "Repeat that again."

The pain in his abdomen burned hotter. "From the beginning?"

"From entering the tower and seeing Ms. Stroud."

"We blew out the windows, and I along with my team entered through there. Becca was climbing the stairs –"

Dr. Henson held up a hand. "That will be all. Report to medical immediately."

"Yes, ma'am."

He headed down the hallway to the medical ward. It was a single room, half the size of the sleeping quarters he shared with the other soldiers. The air smelled of sterilization, but it was a smell that permeated most of the compound. The two exceptions were the odor of sweat in the sleeping quarters and a faint scent of singed hair which came from a door that gave him an uneasy feeling as he walked by.

It was only after a doctor had set his broken bones and left him to rest on a cot that he had a realization.

Staring at the pattern of cracks in the ceiling, his mind formed the lines into a pattern, a puzzle, a map. He thought to map out the compound, but he had visited so few of the rooms, going only where Dr. Henson instructed. He knew the sleeping quarters, the showers, the mess hall, the exercise room, the lab where he ran mental exercises, the main entrance/exit, and he also had vague memories of lying naked on the floor of an area made of a clear material. And he knew the medical ward. Except that, to his knowledge, he had never been to the medical ward before today.

He frowned at the ceiling. He figured he must have been in the medical ward before, otherwise how would he have known where to go? And Dr. Henson hadn't given him any directions, so she must have expected that he would be able to find his way. He concentrated hard, groping for a memory. It was difficult. He didn't know how one searched for a memory. He had never felt any will to try before. He thought that recalling a memory should be instinctual. For certain, he could recall the mission in crystal clear detail without much effort, but beyond this week, and it was like he was searching for a door in a wall that stretched out endlessly without even the hint of a crack.

Perhaps he needed to create the door, carve one out of the wall with what little he knew. He was a soldier. He was part of an organization that was trying to make the world a better place. He had volunteered for a program which erased his memories so that he could commit to furthering the cause without distractions. He… had a name once. Captain Steve Rogers.

Eyes closed, he mediated on that name, repeating it to himself. He turned all his focus inward on that name. He shut out the hum of the lights and the smell of sterilization. He drew himself a door with that name, constructing surface with its lines and curve.

Thor grabbed at him. _"Captain Rogers, you are not yourself."_

Becca reached out, blood bubbling from her lips. _"Steve, please."_

He made the lines of the door darker, thicker, willing the wall to break. He could feel something now, something itching the back of his brain. His jaw throbbed under the pressure of his teeth grinding together. He reached and reached.

" _Stevie, would you listen?"_

His eyes opened. He had remembered something from his past. Only a sliver, only the sound of a voice and not one he could place, but it was still a memory. So the name his enemies had used was really his.

His feeling of triumph at having discovered a memory dimmed as a sense of wrongness overshadowed it. Something was off here. He didn't know what, but he knew that he had to find out.

He waited through the late afternoon into the evening. The doctor poked and prodded him and stated that he should stay in the ward overnight for monitoring. He expected to see Dr. Henson, but she didn't appear. She must be immersed in deciding their next move after his failure, and while he felt guilt for the unsuccessful mission, he was grateful for the distraction it had caused.

When all sounds ceased in the hall and he could tell the late hour by the slight heaviness of his eyelids, he got up from the cot and snuck to the door. He held the badge he had stolen off the doctor in front of the sensor, tensing as the door hissed open. He shifted at one angle, then another to peer down both ends of the hallway. Finding it empty, he stepped out and the door closed behind him.

He crept down the hallway, silent in bare feet. Two scientists came out of a room, and he held the badge in front of another sensor. A light blinked red and the door didn't open. He glanced down the hallway. If he started running, he could knock them both out before they made a sound. However, the scientists walked across the hall without glancing his way and disappeared into another room. He stood there, allowing seconds to trickle by, but when the scientists did not reappear he continued towards his destination.

As the badge had failed to open one of the doors, he was concerned that access would be denied to the room in which he had done mental exercises, but the door hissed open, lights flicking on as he entered. He went over to the computer sitting on one end of the room. The screen prompted him for a username. He closed his eyes, visualizing the motions of the scientist as she stood at the computer. He typed in a name. The screen froze, thinking. The name disappeared, replaced by a request for a password. This took a few tries as seeing the middle keys had been a difficulty from his position at the time, but finally he got the correct password.

He glanced over his shoulder and listened. Hearing nothing, he returned to his task. Most of the images on the bottom of the screen were unfamiliar to him, and he had to click several of them before finding the internet. He paused, listened, and moved on. He brought up a search engine and typed in "Captain Steve Rogers."

Initially, his focus was pulled to pictures between all of the text, pictures of himself in his suit, but they did not reveal anything new at first glance and he needed to make this search as brief as possible if he was to avoid getting caught. An article at the top of the screen bore the headline "Fallen Hero: Captain America Falls From Stark Tower, Disappears Again." It was another name, a name he distinctly remembered from earlier that week spoken on Dr. Henson's tablet. Becca, his target, had been speaking at that press conference, with Thor behind her. She had been speaking to Captain America, to Steve – to him.

The sense of wrongness grew, a lead weight in his chest. He nearly clicked the article but noticed the large words "Captain America (Steven Rogers) – Wikipedia." Certain that Wikipedia would provide more information than an article, he clicked. He read about the transformation of a hero, a kid from Brooklyn who became this symbol. The story felt so distant from him, like he was reading about a figure in a history book and not himself, but whenever he doubted, he returned to the top of the page where his picture had been placed. He read about how he had joined a group called the Avengers, which included Thor.

" _I am your ally_. _"_

They had fought an alien race in New York who had appeared though a hole in the sky.

He read about how he had exposed an old enemy, Hydra from within an organization called S.H.I.E.L.D., which confused him. Was he still working within S.H.I.E.L.D.? But the article quoted him in as stating that he thought S.H.I.E.L.D. should be permanently disbanded. Which made him wonder who Dr. Henson was, and what organization she worked for. She had never given him a name. He had never asked.

The article moved on from his deeds as Captain America to a section title "Personal Life," and his eyes instantly picked out the name "Becca Stroud." He skipped to that paragraph, and another piece of the press conference Dr. Henson had showed him clicked into place. And why he had, for a second, gotten a strange, familiar feeling when he looking at her.

" _I'm Becca. Don't you remember me?"_

Becca was his best girl. He read the paragraph once, twice, expecting to see a line about how their relationship had ended or how she had turned out to be a spy. He found nothing.

Why had Dr. Henson ordered him to kill her? He thought that perhaps she was a spy still undercover or had done some wrong deed, but it didn't add up. Even if Becca had been the enemy, he didn't think he liked working under a person who would order a soldier to take out someone close to them, someone who, from the sound of things, he had loved.

A crack split the silence. He had been pressing so hard on the keyboard that the plastic had broken.

He took a step back from the computer. He knew he had to leave. On his flight to New York, he had seen a road ten miles or so from here. He would flag down a car and hitch a ride. He needed more answers, and he had the distinct feeling that he wouldn't get them here.

He hastened to the door, slipping out into the hallway and sprinting for the exit. He waved the badge in front of the sensor. A red light blinked. He tried again with the same result. He remembered with frustration the thick bolt on the outside of the door. For a moment, he considered waiting until morning, but decided that this was his best chance. Even if he made noise, the others in the compound wouldn't be as alert in the middle of the night.

He tossed the useless badge aside and grabbed the door handle. Feet firmly planted on the ground, he pulled with all his strength. The metal door whined and began to bow. He pulled harder, jaw clenched with the effort. The door handle snapped off, sending him flying backwards. He sucked in a pained breath as he hit the floor. It was his second meeting with concrete today, and his body had not yet recovered from the first.

But he got back to his feet. The door had bent enough that he could jam his fingers into a crack. Any second now, the other soldiers would come pouring out of the sleeping quarters, doctors startled from their beds and labs. He pulled, his face contorting with the effort.

The door ripped from its hinges, tearing chunks of the wall. He coughed in dust and barreled past the door and up the stairs. Where he stopped.

Every last solider from the compound stood before him, fully clothed with guns in hand, all trained on him. Dr. Henson stood in the center, her tablet in hand like a magazine she had been pursuing while she waiting on his inevitable appearance. She didn't look angry or disappointed. She looked at him as though he were a mouse who had thought itself clever enough to escape its maze, only to find itself in a cage. Her eyes had that piercing, speculative look like she was curious to see what he would do next, turn back into the maze or bang himself against the bars.

"It would be much easier for all of us if you turned around now," remarked Dr. Henson.

He straightened. He knew he could not go back into the compound. He would not let himself be used as a weapon anymore. It didn't matter if he went down. Either Dr. Henson let him go or he was going to get some answers on the other side of the pearly gates.

"All right," he said, and promptly turned and ran back down the stairs.

From the uncertain looks of the soldiers, he figured he had bought himself a few seconds. He grabbed the door, hefted its weight and yanked, tearing it the rest of the way from the wall. He flipped it so he could use the bolt as a handle and ran up with the door as a shield.

Upon reaching the ground, he darted immediately to his left, hugging the wall. The solider on the end, Private Sumner, was the smaller of the two on the ends, and he hoped to knock her to the ground in the charge. It was eerie running towards someone who had a gun, but made no move to use it, holding steady for the command of a superior officer.

Dr. Henson ordered, "Plan C."

Sumner lowered her gun and stepped to side, but the side closest to the wall. He would have to pass right by. He didn't want to kill this solider, who sat on her bed with the same blank look they all did while waiting to be called. But he had no qualms about making the private lose consciousness. He prepared to shift the door, a momentary spin of his body to knock Sumner to the ground, when she tossed something.

He didn't have time to dodge or shift the large door. At least, not much. He jerked to the right so the thing didn't catch him in the chest, but in the shoulder. It clicked and something burned beneath his flesh, but he left whatever it was and followed through with the plan. He spun on his heels, the door slamming into Sumner and the solider on the other side of her and they sailed backwards.

He flung the door aside and sprinted. He pulled the thing from his shoulder and tossed it aside. Something whistled through the air behind him. He dodged, but another came and another and another in a rain of fire. One hit is back, the second his left leg. Each brought the same burning pain. Then, he was out of range.

But Dr. Henson had let him go too easily. He knew that even as he continued to run. Even as his head spun and his limbs turned to jelly. He would never reach the road. He stumbled and nearly fell, careening between trees. He refused to let himself be taken back there. He would not be a weapon. He could find a rock, a sharp rock to smash into his skull. His legs gave out beneath him and he crawled.

And there ahead a boulder rose. He crawled towards it. His vision became a tunnel with the boulder fuzzy at the end. Elbow over elbow he moved and when he could no longer managed that, he pulled himself with his fingers. He kept telling himself it was only a little bit farther, only a little bit farther.

His limbs stopped responding when he was no more than an arm's length away. He stared at the boulder and prayed for the strength to move that arm's length, but no one was there. There was the boulder. And then there was darkness.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So much happened in this chapter, and yet not enough. But things are building to a head. See you next week!**


	13. Let's Not Be Realistic

The drone – or, technically, J.A.R.V.I.S. – set Becca down in a patch of trees close enough to the parkway to hear cars passing but with enough foliage that they were hidden from view. She was sweating from being pressed against the warm metal, while her nose and her feet felt ice cold from flying through the air. She gripped a tree for balance while she breathed in and out. The altitude had begun to make her lightheaded.

Steve had disappeared once again. She had pestered J.A.R.V.I.S. for updates as they sped away from the Avengers Tower, and he told her about Thor and Steve falling to the ground. Fear burned like bile in her throat as she pictured them smashing into the pavement, but J.A.R.V.I.S. had assured her that both men had survived the fall. Steve had been able to pull himself from the impact site, and Thor had gotten up not a minute later. An aircraft had picked Steve up, and J.A.R.V.I.S. said he had been able to hack into their system while the aircraft hovered close to the tower. However, the security breach had been detected and blocked before he could bring the aircraft down.

It was so unbelievably aggravating. Steve had been _right there_. If only J.A.R.V.I.S. had given her another minute, she could have gotten through to Steve again and Thor would have arrived to hold off the Hydra agents, all of whom were now dead. Becca smacked her palm hard against a tree. They'd been so close, and had nothing to show for it but a couple of blown out windows, a crashed helicopter, and a bunch of bodies.

"God fucking dammit!" She kicked the tree, which accomplished nothing but making her toes throb as she didn't exactly have time to grab shoes before blast off. "Okay, what now, J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"As Thor does not have the knowledge to drive a car, Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner will be picking us up," J.A.R.V.I.S. informed her.

"Why can't you just fly me back to the tower?"

"The tower could face a second attack."

"Oh, please. What're the chances of that really?" She didn't think that Steve's disappearance and the dead Hydra agents was some kind of ruse. The hospital blowing up had been the diversion. This wasn't a second one. And besides, Thor would be there to get in the way of any further attacks.

"I could give you a percentage, but I don't believe it would improve your mood."

"Well, maybe I would be in a better mood if you hadn't freaking swooped in and flown me into the middle goddamn nowhere!" Becca pressed her hands against her eyes. Ugh. She was essentially yelling at a computer. No point in that. Suddenly, she felt very, very tired. "Fine. Then, could you fly me home, please?" She would ask him to contact Ally, tell her to stay away just to be safe. She needed to curl up in her bed for a little while.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Stroud," J.A.R.V.I.S. apologized. "Mr. Stark had not yet finished with this drone. I severely damaged the repulsors in getting you this far, so I cannot risk another flight."

Well, that figured. She rested against a tree and slid to the ground. "How long until they get here?"

"With Mr. Stark's proclivity for receiving speeding tickets, I estimate he and Dr. Banner will be arriving in around two hours."

"Two hours?!" So she had to sit here doing nothing for two hours? No one with the slightest clue how to follow Steve's trail would be showing up for two hours? Becca wanted to scream at the sky. "I am not waiting here for two hours."

She bounced a heel against the ground. Maybe she could ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to call one of her friends. Options were fairly limited, since almost none of them had cars, but they could come in a taxi. Although with an attack on the tower, the usual traffic must have turned into a standstill with the amount of people trying to get out. And J.A.R.V.I.S. had flown her a good distance outside the city. Between the traffic and the distance, it would likely take one of her friends two hours to get to her. Now, if her friends had been in the surrounding area instead of the city, that would be a different – She stilled.

"What direction did we fly out of New York?"

"West," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. "We are currently on the limits of Montclair."

"I have an aunt that lives near here."

For so long she had avoided visiting family or friends in case her appearance put them in harm's way. But Hydra was definitely preoccupied at the moment. If anyone had been following her, they had their chance to take her out in these trees, hidden from view of all the people driving along the parkway. And she would only be visiting for a couple of hours. Plus, J.A.R.V.I.S. could probably block the call from being traced.

"That would be Caroline Stroud?" J.A.R.V.I.S. questioned.

"Yeah, my Aunt Carrie. What time is it?" Her aunt was a single mom, and Becca knew she worked one of her two jobs during school hours so she could spend the afternoons and early evenings with her six-year-old son and Becca's youngest cousin, Aiden.

"It is one-fourteen in the afternoon."

She wasn't sure when her aunt got off work exactly or when Aiden got out of school, but the timing didn't seem too inconvenient. "Do you think you could call her?" When J.A.R.V.I.S. didn't immediately respond, Becca added, "Please? Wouldn't it be safer for me inside somewhere where, like, I can't be found by satellite or something?"

J.A.R.V.I.S. made a noise that sounded almost like a sigh. "Calling Ms. Caroline Stroud."

"Thank you."

The line was busy. With the attack on the Avengers Tower, Becca supposed she couldn't be surprised. Her parents had known she was staying there, and if her parents knew, everyone in her family knew. She asked J.A.R.V.I.S. if he could send out a mass text or e-mail to her family and friends to let them know that she was okay. He had her select contacts Tony had imported into the tablet, which was sitting on the bed where she had left it, and compose a short text. Having an A.I. around might be creepy on occasion, but it was also very convenient.

When J.A.R.V.I.S. tried her aunt again, he got her voicemail. Hearing her aunt's voice come out of the mouth of the drone was another scoop of strange on top of her already messed up day. Becca left a message, and her aunt called back a few minutes later. She tried to explain the situation in a way that wouldn't make her aunt feel like she _had_ to come pick them up, but her efforts were negated by the over enthusiasm of her thank-yous when her aunt said she would drive over right after picking up Aiden from school.

They moved through the trees closer to a quiet street in Montclair where they had less of a chance of being spotted than if they were being picked up on the parkway. As they had about twenty minutes to wait, Becca settled on the ground once more, leaning up against a tree. What a day, and it wasn't even over yet. She would have to apologize to Tony about all the damage to his tower. And she should tweet something about the hospital.

"Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S.? What happened to the hospital?" she asked.

There was a quiet delay, like that split second when Google runs a search, and then J.A.R.V.I.S. said, "There are police there now. And people are being allowed back inside."

"That's good. Did… did anyone die?"

"The news has not reported any deaths."

"That's not what I asked." Becca lifted her head when J.A.R.V.I.S. didn't reply. She wondered if he was avoiding the question, and why. "J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"I am searching the hospital logs. So far there have been three deaths logged in the hospital in the past ten minutes due to trauma from the explosions."

Her stomach sank. Three so far, which meant there was likely to be more. So many people had died because of her. Agent Schloss, Mr. Otsuka, the two former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who had been watching her in the hotel, the two Hydra agents who had tortured her, the seven possibly-brainwashed soldiers who had accompanied Steve in the tower, and at least three innocent bystanders. Which made… She did the math. Sixteen.

Becca pulled her legs to her chest and rested her forehead against them. Sixteen people who were no longer around because of choices she had made. Most of those deaths weren't entirely her fault, but the fact remained that they wouldn't have happened without her.

She heard the light clank of metal on metal as the drone came over and sat beside her.

"You're not going to power down or something are you?" she asked.

"No," J.A.R.V.I.S. assured her. "The reactor technology powering this drone is self-sustainable."

"Okay. Good." Because she couldn't be alone right now. She ran her hand against her nose, and the skin came away with flakes of dark red. She must have got a nosebleed from smacking into the railing. Using her sleeve, she rubbed around her nose so her aunt wouldn't freak from seeing the blood. "They're gonna find him, right?"

"'They?'"

"The Avengers. I mean, they have all the resources, the smarts, the – the everything. They've got you. They've gotta be able to track him down."

"Of course, Ms. Stroud. I know they are doing all they can, as am I. I'm sure Captain Rogers will be found soon."

"Yeah." Only with today's catastrophe, she wasn't so sure that "soon" would be soon enough.

Becca contemplated that particular problem as she shifted leaves around beneath her bare feet until J.A.R.V.I.S. indicated they should get up to meet her aunt. They walked through the patch of trees and across a side yard to get to the idling sedan. The driver's door opened at their approach, and her aunt hopped out.

Aside from the Stroud family nose, Aunt Carrie could not have looked any less like her niece. She was skinny as a twig with pin straight hair and narrow green eyes. But although their appearances diverged greatly, they shared physical personalities from waving their hands when they talked, to giving annoyed prods in the ribs, to being quick with a hug. And when Becca reached her aunt, she was immediately wrapped into a tight hug.

It felt so good to be held. Becca pressed her face into her aunt's shoulder, comfort washing over her. Being away from her family had been hard. They were a close-knit kind of family. Not the call-every-day kind, but the kind who spent every holiday gathered at one house and would reached out if they knew one of their own had hit a rough patch. She had found that second part stifling at times, but after spending two months in limbo, she appreciated knowing that any of them would support her like her aunt, going out of their way to make time for her.

"Thanks for coming," Becca said.

"Of course." Her aunt leaned back to study her. "You got some blood on your cheek. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. We should probably get going before someone glances out their window."

Her aunt gave her a look that said there would be a thorough inspection later, but nodded. Her eyes slid to the drone.

"Oh." Becca touched its arm. "And this is the drone I mentioned. Um, with J.A.R.V.I.S."

J.A.R.V.I.S. offered, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Stroud."

Although her aunt's eyebrows rose almost to her hairline when he offered a hand, she shook it and replied, "Pleasure's all mine." She led them towards the car. "I let your dad know you're safe, so I'm sure he'll spread the word. Though he said something about a text?"

"Yeah. I had J.A.R.V.I.S. send out a text so everyone knew I'm okay," Becca explained. She opened the passenger side and slid in. Aiden was buckled into the back seat, his backpack clutched in his arms. He stared at the drone with wide eyes as it climbed into the seat next to him, the car sinking at the added weight. "Hey, buddy. Is it okay if he sits with you?"

Aiden just nodded, not tearing his gaze away from the drone.

Must be every kid's dream to meet a robot made by a superhero. She would have thought it was the coolest thing ever when she was younger. "He's a robot that Iron Man built. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Uh huh."

"And he's being controlled by J.A.R.V.I.S., who's like a –"

"I know about J.A.R.V.I.S.," Aiden said, lips pouting in annoyance.

"Be nice to your cousin," her aunt chided as she pulled off the curb. "She's had a long day."

Aiden clutched his backpack more tightly to his chest. Anything inside must be getting crushed, but he had finally stopped looking at the drone. His eyes instead fixed on Becca. His mouth worked like he was chewing on a piece of gum, or a jumble of words. "Did Captain America really fight Thor?"

Becca raised an eyebrow, wondering where he had gotten that bit of information so fast. "Did you hear that at school?"

He shook his head. "A man said it on the radio."

Her aunt's arm shot out to turn of the radio, which had been playing at a low volume. "Sweetheart, remember what Mommy said?" She gave Becca an apologetic glance before focusing back on the road. "Why don't you tell Becca about the project you're doing for science?"

Aiden's mouth worked for a few seconds, but he begrudgingly related that his kindergarten class had been raising ladybugs.

Becca debated whether she should say that it was all right for Aiden to ask her questions about Steve, but she didn't want to upset her aunt for the short time they were together. She decided instead to try and get him on his own for a cousin-to-cousin talk. He might be young, but she would rather he got his information from her rather than through the radio or what a friend had overheard from their parents.

So she prodded him for more information about the ladybugs in the meanwhile. When he couldn't remember the word for a part of the ladybug, J.A.R.V.I.S. spoke up. Aiden's mouth dropped open and his expression lit up. Soon his sullen demeanor was left behind as he asked J.A.R.V.I.S. a million and one questions about Iron Man and the drone and shooting lasers out of his hands. Becca had to laugh at the contrast in expressions when he asked for a demonstration, Aiden bouncing with excitement while her aunt tensed in alarm. She let out an audible breath of relief when J.A.R.V.I.S. explained about the damaged repulsors.

By the time they reached the apartment complex, the lingering disappointment and guilt over the day's events had been pressed to the back of Becca's mind, the clamor of emotions hushed for the moment. They idled in the car until the building looked all clear, at which point J.A.R.V.I.S. flew up to the balcony her aunt pointed out. Even though Hydra probably wouldn't come looking, she and J.A.R.V.I.S. had agreed after the phone call that it would be best if as few people as possible knew where they were. He was more likely to be seen walking through the apartment complex versus the flash of movement outside a window.

Aiden gasped a quiet "woah" as he watched J.A.R.V.I.S. go. He gripped her aunt's hand as they walked towards the door. "Did you see that, Mommy?"

"I did. But remember, we're supposed to be quiet, right?" Her aunt put a finger to her lips.

"Oh, yeah." Aiden mirrored her gesture.

Becca held up a finger too and winked. Aiden grinned.

They went inside and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. Aiden held out his hand expectantly and her aunt allowed him to unlock the door. Their apartment was about the size of the one Becca had been staying in with Natasha, with the combined kitchen-living room space and single bedroom. Her aunt made for the balcony door, and Becca took this as her chance to talk to Aiden.

She followed him into the bedroom. Half of the room had her aunt's bed and things, simple IKEA furniture with a couple of framed pictures and accumulated knick-knacks. Aiden had his own, smaller bed on the other side of the room with plastic bins full of toys. She picked out the Avengers action figures immediately, tiny plastic faces both familiar and distorted. She crouched by the bin and lifted a Captain America figure out. It appeared less banged up than the rest, thought its curled fist was clearly missing a shield.

She noted, "This looks new."

"I got it for my birthday," Aiden said, tossing his backpack on his bed.

"Very cool." Becca felt a button on the figure's back and pressed it.

A voice that was definitely not Steve's declared, "For freedom!"

She barely restrained a snort of laughter. Oh my god. It would be so funny to buy one of these and whip it out when Steve got in one of those moods where he went on a tangent. Or better yet, when he was doing something completely normal, like telling her he had to make a trip to the grocery store. For freedom! Perfect.

Becca noticed Aiden watching her. He was making that chewing motion again, biting back words. She returned the figure to the plastic bin and said, "Aiden, I know your mom probably told you not to ask me questions about Captain America, but it's okay if you do. You won't get in trouble." She put on her friendliest smile. She didn't have a lot of experience with kids, but the smile seemed to work fine on everyone else so it was worth a shot. "Is there something you wanted to ask?"

Aiden pulled on the edge of his t-shirt and glanced out the doorway. He seemed to be debating if he really wouldn't get into trouble or not, but at last he ventured, "Is J.A.R.V.I.S. protecting you from Captain America?"

Becca remembered her aunt hurriedly clicking off the radio. Were people saying that Steve had come after her? She wasn't sure how anyone would know for certain what had happened considering only J.A.R.V.I.S. had been there, and she didn't think Thor would – well, actually she had no idea if Thor would talk to the press or not. In any case, the news did tend to run with the juiciest speculations when they didn't have the facts yet, so she supposed Aiden could've overheard something close to the truth.

She didn't want to lie to her cousin, but not wanting to scare him either, she asked, "Why would you think that?"

Aiden pulled harder on his t-shirt. "Mrs. Donaldson told Ms. Juarez that Captain America is bad now."

"Who's Mrs. Donaldson?"

"My teacher." His brow scrunched in confusion. "She took down his poster. She had it up on the History Wall, and she took it down."

Becca gnawed on her lip. It pissed her off that anyone would doubt that Steve wasn't good. Yeah, people thought all sorts of things when they got scared, but this was Steve. He had proven more than once that he was as good as they came. His morals were so squeaky clean that it could get irritating sometimes. Clearly everything he had done since disappearing was in no way, shape, or form his fault. He was obviously under the influence of Hydra. And fine, they couldn't prove it was Hydra, but she found it baffling that someone would be blind to the fact that Steve hadn't been making his own decisions.

What made this worse were adults clouding the judgment of kids who looked up to Steve. Being over twenty years apart in age, she hadn't had much interaction with Aiden. Once he could walk and talk, they existed on each other's periphery during family get-togethers. But when he had found out she was dating Captain America, suddenly he had an interest in talking to her about Steve. From his questions and enthusiastic chatter, it became apparent how much Aiden loved Captain America and his fellow Avengers. How dare anyone take that away from him?

"Captain America isn't bad," Becca promised him. "He's just… confused." She sat on the floor and Aiden took that as a sign to sit, too. "Do you know about Hydra?"

"They're the bad guys," said Aiden at once.

"That's right. Well, Hydra did something to Captain America so he doesn't remember anything anymore."

"So Captain America doesn't know he's Captain America?"

"Mhm."

"Ohhhh." Aiden nodded like everything suddenly made sense. Trust a kid to catch right on while the adults ran around in a panic.

"Yeah. So if you heard about Captain America doing anything bad, you remember it's because he's very confused." Becca couldn't even imagine having all her memories erased. She had tried, but it was too strange, and Steve would be going through it alone, being fed lies by Hydra. "And he's probably very angry and very scared," she murmured, more to herself than her cousin.

Aiden scoffed. "Captain America doesn't get scared."

She pulled her focus to him, shoving aside the image of Steve sitting in a dark room with looming figures bearing down on him. "Everyone gets scared. Even Captain America. And when people are scared, sometimes they do the wrong thing."

Aiden seemed to think it over, his face tense with concentration as he considered this new piece of information. "So he's scared because he doesn't know he's Captain America?"

"Wouldn't you be scared if you forgot you were Aiden?"

His faced relaxed with understanding. "Yeah. But the Avengers will – will get him from Hydra, and then he'll remember he's Captain America, right?"

Her earlier doubt bubbled forward from the back of her mind, but Becca reached out and gave Aiden's knee a reassuring squeeze. "That's what they're working on right now. And so am I. Once I have him back, I'm going to remind him all about being Captain America. I'll show him pictures and videos and talk and talk until my mouth falls off." She let her tongue loll out of her mouth.

Aiden crossed his arms like he couldn't believe how silly she was being, but suddenly he uncrossed them. "Mommy?" He got to his feet. "Mom –" Her aunt stepped into the room. From her abrupt appearance, Becca realized she must have been hovering right outside the door. Aiden grabbed her pantleg and tugged insistently. "Can you get the box with the special papers?"

Her aunt frowned. "Why?"

"I wanna give Becca the e-mail from Captain America so he can remember. Please? Please?"

Becca was completely lost. Box with the special papers? E-mail from Captain America? She hoisted herself from the floor while her aunt , with a long-suffering sigh, opened the closet.

Her aunt took out a fire-resistant lock box and retrieved the key from a pair of rolled up sock in her bureau. When she opened the box, the special papers part made sense. An envelope sat on top marked as the "Last Will and Testament of Caroline Stroud." She rifled through the papers, which had pieces of Aiden's artwork between the more important birth certificates and the like. Either she wanted to be sure to have some keepsakes or had humored her son's request to put in his own "special papers." She took out a stack of three papers folded together and handed them to Aiden who, in turn, handed them to Becca.

She unfolded the papers and peered down at them.

 _From: sgrogers_

 _To: 477_

 _Subject: RE: FWD: Aiden History Project_

 _Dear Aiden,_

 _These were a lot of good questions. I hope this e-mail fully answers them all._

 _1\. Where did you grow up? What was it like there?_

 _I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. It was a lot different than it is today. It's a real nice place now. Back when I lived there, it wasn't so nice. At least it didn't look as nice, but there was a lot I liked about it…_

She remembered what this was from. Her aunt had called her up before Thanksgiving vacation because Aiden had been assigned a project in which he was supposed to interview someone who lived in a different point in history. The project was really meant to get the kids to interview their grandparents, but for those who didn't have grandparents, they were encouraged to visit an elderly neighbor or a family friend. Her aunt had sounded embarrassed to be calling, but Aiden had already asked for permission from his teacher to send questions to Captain America.

While Skyping with Steve later, Becca had brought up the project. She had found it rather hilarious that the point had basically been to interview the elderly and her cousin had thought of him. After several dry remarks in response to her teasing, Steve had said he'd be happy to help out. She had forwarded the e-mail and knew that Steve had gotten around to answering the question, but she never actually got to see his responses.

Carefully, she folded the pages back up to be read later. It was so sweet of Aiden to think of this. Becca held out her arms, and Aiden walked right into the hug. "Thanks, buddy. I'll make sure to give these to Captain America. I'm sure it'll help him remember."

Her aunt put the box away and ushered them to the kitchen table, where she laid out a snack of grapes and crackers with a choice of cheese or peanut butter. Becca ducked into the bathroom to clean up before gratefully shared a glass of wine, or two, with her aunt while Aiden slurped down apple juice. He insisted they put out a cup and plate for J.A.R.V.I.S. too, although her aunt drew the line at filling the cup with oil or other "things that might be good for robots." Fortunately, J.A.R.V.I.S. stepped in to say he didn't need anything. Becca thought he sounded kind of miffed about being called a robot. Maybe this A.I. did have feelings. Great, they were one step closer to _2001: A Space Odyssey_. Not that J.A.R.V.I.S. would go all Hal-900, but someone could build an A.I. that would.

Eventually, Aiden dragged J.A.R.V.I.S. off to show him his Avengers toy collection, leaving Becca and her aunt at the kitchen table.

"Aiden seems to be doing well," Becca noted. "He's still enjoying school?"

Her aunt lowered her wine glass. "Yes. But how are you? The whole Captain America situation must be so overwhelming."

"Oh, you know, just another day in the life of dating a superhero." Becca smiled weakly. Another terrible, terrible day. "But we'll get things figured out somehow."

"Has there been any progress?"

"Not – not really." She sighed. "It's actually pretty frustrating. When I saw Steve today, I swear I got through to him for a second. If we could just find him, I know he'd get his memory back."

With a frown, her aunt asked, "Do you know how his memories were erased in the first place? Or does someone know?"

"Well, no. Not exactly. But like I said, I got through to him today so…"

Her aunt took another sip from her glass. She set it down, spinning the base in a circle around the table. Her gaze flicked from Becca's face to the glass and back again before quietly venturing, "Have you thought about what will happen if his memory loss is permanent?"

Becca snorted a laugh. "It's not."

"But you just said that no one knows how his memory's been affected, so how can you know it's not permanent?"

"Um, I said I got through to him."

"You said you thought you got through to him for a second," her aunt countered.

Frustration tensed Becca's shoulders, filling her chest with pressure like a rapidly expanding balloon. "I know I got through to him."

"How?"

"Something I said, I guess."

Her aunt shook her head. "How do you know you got through to him?"

"I just do, okay?"

Holding up a placating hand, her aunt pointed out, "Even if you did, a small breakthrough doesn't mean he'll be himself again."

"He will."

"And I hope that's true, but you have to at least consider the possibility." Her aunt scooted forward in her chair, reaching for Becca's hand, but Becca pulled her arm back. Undeterred, her aunt pressed on. "Steve murdered someone. He tried to attack you. If it's not safe –"

"I'll be fine."

"– you shouldn't be around him."

" _I'll be fine._ "

"You can't know that," her aunt stated, clearly growing frustrated as well. "He might not get better. They might have to lock him up or –"

Becca shot to her feet in a fury. "Shut up! Just shut up!" She whirled away from the table, catching a glimpse of Aiden peeking around the corner of the bedroom with the drone standing behind him. She stalked into the bathroom and locked the door.

Steve would be okay. He would. Her aunt didn't know what she was talking about. Becca flipped the toilet cover shut and sat. Her aunt didn't get it. If she really knew Steve, she'd know that he'd make a recovery. His body healed quick, so his mind should, too. And she _had_ gotten through to him. Once he was away from Hydra, he would get back to himself. And sure, maybe it would take some time, but she knew in every single bone in her body that things would work out. Steve couldn't forget her forever. He just couldn't.

"Ms. Stroud?" J.A.R.V.I.S. knocked on the door. "Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner have arrived."

Becca sniffed and looked over her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks had gone a blotchy red. She ran her hands under cold water and pressed them to her skin. Calm down. Time to leave and get focused on finding Steve again. She left the bathroom.

Her aunt offered Becca slippers, the only footwear she owned that fit Becca's feet. Becca pointedly avoided hugging her aunt, but gave one to Aiden and made herself smile because he looked worried. He and her aunt both shook the drone's hand, Aiden asking one more time if J.A.R.V.I.S. could just shoot a little laser at one of the plants. Much to her aunt's relief Becca was sure, he again declined, but he did power up one of the repulsors in his hand slightly so Aiden could see the bright glow. Becca left with her cousin gasping in excitement and clapping his hands.

Down in the parking lot, Becca spotted the car immediately as it was both the only idling car and the most expensive looking one. She waved Tony over to where she stood, glanced around to be sure the area was clear, and beckoned J.A.R.V.I.S. down from the balcony. She opened the back door of the car to let him in first and slipped in after.

"New car, sir?" J.A.R.V.I.S. inquired.

Tony explained, "Needed something with more seats."

Becca clipped her seatbelt as he peeled out of the parking lot. "Well, thank you guys for picking us up. How's your day going?"

"Well, Spangles blew up half my tower, so…"

Dr. Banner looked back. "How're you? No, uh, damage?"

Becca shook her head. "I'm okay. Half the tower got blown up? Like, one floor got destroyed when I was there."

"It's probably just the one floor," Dr. Banner assured her.

"I liked that floor," Tony huffed.

Becca rolled her eyes. "So where are we going?"

"Team meeting."

Good idea. Get everyone together and find out what was going on. She hunkered down in her seat and considered the papers folded in her hand. If the Avengers could get her to Steve, she knew she could make him remember. That was the key. But when would they be able to find him? Her earlier uncertainty peeked out from its corner. Not soon enough. Or maybe not soon enough. She would have to see where everyone stood, and then – and then she might have to do something drastic.

Tony drove them back to New York. Evidently another attack on the Avengers Tower was no longer a concern because that's where he pulled up. A barrier had been erected around the area, but all he had to do was roll down a window and show his face to be let through. Reporters flocked to the car, but police kept them back until the barriers could be removed and, once they were through, replaced. He parked beneath the tower and they rode up towards the top.

Thor was waiting in the shattered remnants of the living area, still in full superhero attire. The room was thankfully devoid of bodies. Becca noticed a few small scrapes on Thor, but he looked otherwise fine. When he tried to apologize for not being there to protect her, she held up her hands and reassured him. Not his fault. She had told him to go to the hospital.

They entered one of the labs where the drone finally powered down in a corner, the lights in its eyes and mouth going dark. Tony fiddled around with some of his tech and eventually pulled up three screens in the air: one had Clint, the other Natasha, and the third had both Sam and Agent Hill. Clint had been following a lead on a branch of Hydra. Natasha had been following a similar lead in another part of the country. Sam and Agent Hill had traveled to South Korea to speak with Sam's friend of a friend who had known Sergeant Yeaboah. Becca relayed what had happened in the tower, and then hung back to listen.

And the more she listened to the Avengers talk, the more she realized that they had become trapped in a scavenger hunt with no end in sight. Find one clue, and that clue would lead to another clue, which lead to another and another. The game could end at any second or in a year. Except this wasn't a game. Not when people were dying. Not when kids like her cousin were losing their hero. And not when Steve had to spend another day as a Hydra puppet. She had been right. Soon wasn't soon enough because, even more than all of those reasons to take action, she was tired of all of this.

"Wait. Hold on," Becca interrupted when the Avengers and Co. seemed ready to wrap up the meeting. "This has all been interesting, but I have an actual plan. Or part of a plan." She looked around and, certain she had everyone's attention, continued, "Okay, so Steve was sent after me today, I'm assuming because whoever's pulling the strings thought having Captain America kill his girlfriend would make huge waves. I'm assuming they'd still like to get the job done, maybe even more now because their track record isn't so great. First, Steve kills that NSA guy, but punches one of the guys he's supposed to be working with. Then, he comes after me, but that doesn't work. So basically I think I should be bait, and we can get him that way."

An uncomfortable, contemplative silence fell over the group. Becca lifted her head under the weight of their collective stairs.

"No." Natasha was the first to protest. "It's too dangerous."

Clint said, "It's an idea, but I agree with Nat. There's too much that could go wrong. We should only use that plan as a last resort."

"Wait, hang on," interjected Agent Hill. "If she's willing to be bait, I say we should do it. Hydra blew up a hospital as a diversion. Who knows how many civilians will die next time?"

Becca latched onto the show of support. "Exactly. Plus, I know I can get Steve to listen to me. I got through to him for a second today. J.A.R.V.I.S. saw it. Right?" she called up to the ceiling.

"There was a momentary change in the Captain's demeanor, yes," J.A.R.V.I.S. relayed.

She held her hands up like his word should be proof enough, but Tony was shaking his head, arms folded. "Not a good plan. Cap's unstable."

"And just because he had a momentary lapse this time, doesn't mean it'll happen again," Dr. Banner added. "His brain chemistry will be constantly fluctuating between treatments."

Becca looked to Sam, hoping for more support. He considered her with sympathy, but ultimately said, "Sorry, Becca, but you know if he hurt you, that'd hurt both of you in the end."

Her fingers curled, her cheeks glowing pink. No way could she go back to hiding again. "I'm not taking a vote on this, okay? I'm going to put myself out there, and if none of you want to come, fine." She let out a heavy breath in frustration when no one budged on their opinions. "You know, if any of you were in my place, there wouldn't even be a debate. What, because I'm not a superhero, you think I can't face Steve and Hydra? So I'm not a superhero. I'm not even a regular hero. I'm just someone who wants to go home with my boyfriend and be the freaking normal person that I am. So I'm gonna to do this. And if you all have a problem with that then – then you can all go fuck yourselves."

Becca turned abruptly and stalked out of the lab. This was bullshit. Angry tears sprung to her eyes, and she wiped them away. She didn't need the Avengers telling her what to do. She didn't need her aunt telling her what to do. She was a grown-ass woman, and they couldn't keep her in this tower anymore. She would call up Devika and have her contact the press. From there, well, she'd figure out the rest.

She stood in front of the elevator, but it didn't open. "J.A.R.V.I.S., open the elevator." The doors remained shut. "Please open the elevator," she ground out. No movement. "Oh my god. J.A.R.V.I.S., open the fucking elevator!"

When the elevator still remained shut, she tried yanking the doors open, which, of course, didn't work. With a furious scream, she pounded on the door. Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck. He couldn't do this. They couldn't keep her here.

"Pretty sure that's not gonna work." Becca whirled around to face Tony, who was eyeing her like a potentially dangerous animal. "Maybe if you were, you know, big and green or Hammer of the Gods."

She let her fists slide down the elevator and dug for a scrap of control. "I would appreciate it if I could leave now."

Tony shrugged. "You can go if you want, but we were thinking you might like some backup."

Becca cocked her head. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? "Sooo… we're going with my plan."

"Seems like it."

"Oh. Oh, well, uh, great." She patted the elevator doors. Going back into the lab and facing everyone was going to be really awkward after her outburst, but her plan had a lot better chance of succeeding with the Avengers on board. "Sorry I punched your elevator."

His cheek twitched. "Don't worry about it."

Becca skirted around Tony, who continued to watch her with mild trepidation, and headed for the lab. No time to be concerned about awkwardness. Finally, they were going to do something. Come hell or high water, she was going to bring Steve home.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **No, the Steve PoV is not missing. He will be back next chapter for the showdown. See you soon!**


	14. Best Laid Plans

He sat on a chair examining several columns of unrelated words displayed on a screen embedded in the table before him. After fifteen seconds, the words would disappear, and he would be expected to relay as many of the words as he could remember. Then a new set of words would appear, the process beginning all over again. The doctor had asked him to keep track of the first word in each set to be repeated at the end of the session. However, he was acutely aware that some of those words had already slipped away. His head pounded, and across his scalp, his skin burned and itched. He didn't know how many sets of words had blinked in an out of existence on the screen, but he was almost certain he had been repeating them for at least half an hour.

After he repeated back the majority of the latest columns of words, the doctor asked for the first word from each set.

"Dog... Ambivalent..." His forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Uh..." The words eluded him, scattering like a flock of pigeons as he scrambled in their midst, trying to scoop one up. "Marrow… Lately... Rice..." He knew that he was skipping words, but this was the best he could do. "Rook… No, pot. Rook… Mysticism…"

As he went on, the words became easier to remember, so he was confident that he had the last ten or so correct. He was uncertain about the rest, like he was uncertain about where he was, who he was, and what was going on. But he didn't much care about any of those things. Mostly he just cared about how much his head hurt.

The doctor did something on the tablet in her hand. When it tipped slightly, he saw the same kind of lines and numbers as appeared on the monitor of the device attached to his scalp. She frowned at them, muttering to herself.

"Low, too low. Maybe the adjustments were too extreme, but after underestimating how quickly the tissue would heal... Hm. Checking the reads in a few hours should… Yes." The doctor looked up sharply. "How would you describe the pain in your head on a scale of zero to ten, with zero being no pain and ten being excruciating pain?"

He realized he had pressed a hand to the side of his scalp and lowered it to his lap. "A six or seven, ma'am."

"Hm." She made a few notes on her tablet before setting it down on the table and shooting out questions rapid fire, like she wanted to get them out of the way as quickly as possible. "Do you remember why you're here?"

"No."

"Do you remember my name?"

"No."

"Do you remember your name?"

"No."

"Captain, my name is Dr. Henson. I am part –" She cut off as something on the tablet attracted her attention. She touched the screen once, twice.

An image popped up of a woman standing behind a podium. The woman looked angry, leaning on the podium like she intended to use it as a launching point to propel herself straight through the screen. A banner across the bottom of the screen declared, "Miss America Says 'That Is Not Captain America'."

The image meant nothing to him, but he could see the reaction in Dr. Henson. She peered at the tablet in disbelief, upper lip curled back in a grimace of confusion. When she tapped the screen, she seemed to do so involuntarily, and the image became a video.

" _Hi. I wanna say first how sorry I am to everyone who lost a family member or friend in the attack on Beth Israel Hospital. But even more than being sorry, I'm angry."_ The woman leaned even farther forward, her mouth almost touching the microphone. _"I'm angry because this attack was nothing more than part of some stupid scheme to murder me. You might be asking why Captain America would be sent to murder me instead of taking out someone more important."_ She shrugged. _"Well, I think it's because Hydra thought this is what would make Steve look the worst. But I have news for all of you. I was within two feet of Captain America, and I can tell you that the man wearing that uniform is not Steve Rogers. Oh, Hydra or whatever dumb organization did a good job getting it close, but it's definitely not him. Obviously, they haven't broken him yet. Or maybe they don't even have him. So nice try, whoever you are, but you're not fooling me or the Avengers. So why don't you just go hide in whatever hole you crawled out of and get back to me when you have an actual threat, okay?"_

Dr. Henson tapped the screen and the video paused. "Well, this is an interesting response." Despite the cool evenness of her tone, annoyance deepened the wrinkles around her mouth. "But the attempt to bait me is not unexpected." She pushed the tablet aside like a plate full of spoiled food.

As she had dismissed the video, he also put it aside as inconsequential and focused on Dr. Henson's brief explanation of his lost memory and the goals of Hydra. She stated that after a short observation period, he would be training with the other soldiers to prepare them all for a mission.

He was directed to the sleeping quarters, where he sat on his assigned cot. Many of the beds were similarly occupied by men and women waiting to be called upon. The remaining cots, about a third, were empty. He sat with nothing to occupy himself but the waning throb of his head and the increasing itch of his scalp until Dr. Henson summoned him over the speaker system.

She had him run through a number of the same mental exercises, but this time he found them easier to complete. When asked to remember something, the knowledge stuck with him for longer instead of disappearing as though a snowstorm were covering his mental tracks. She dismissed him until later when he was asked to complete the tasks a final time.

With a satisfied nod, Dr. Henson stated he had improved enough to move on to the next stage. She introduced him to Sergeant Riggs, who would lead team training. All of the soldiers filed out of the bunker to undergo several hours of structured exercises both in a large group and smaller tactical teams. In the tactical teams, the other soldiers looked to him for instruction, and he took the responsibility with an ease that made him figure he must have had a similar role before.

They filed back into the bunker at the end of training, dirt-covered and sweat-stained, and formed a line in front of Dr. Henson. Sergeant Riggs reported his overall satisfaction, after which Dr. Henson announced they were to eat, shower, and sleep. They would be briefed on a mission tomorrow.

He followed the column of soldiers into the mess hall. They ate at large tables, the clink of silverware and the wet click of chewing the only sounds. When finished, he returned his tray and waited until a voice over the speakers announced that they should proceed to the showers. He returned to the sleeping quarters to get a towel, bottle of soap, toothbrush, and clean set of clothing and stood in line for a shower. The line moved continuously, each solider taking no longer than necessary to clean.

Private Ganna hitting the floor was jarring for the misplaced noise. Trickles of red streamed from her nose. Her eyes had closed, but her eyelids flickered. All heads swiveled in her direction. He stared at her convulsing form, taking a step forward when the line moved. He had not been told what to do in an instance like this. Someone towards the back of the line strode away, their footfalls hurrying along the concrete floor; he was not entirely positive who it was from the back of their head.

A doctor came rushing down the hallway with Sergeant Yurida now walking calmly behind. "Fourth one this month," the doctor murmured. "I told her the normal human brain can only stand so many treatments, but does she listen?" He waved over two of the soldiers to carry Ganna and led them off, snarling under his breath about finding a job with less stress and better retirement benefits.

He stepped forward again as the line continued its steady flow. It seemed doubtful to him that Ganna would be on the mission tomorrow. Depending on the mission, her presence could be missed. She was a real sharp shot.

He showered, noticing the angry pink of his scalp reflected in the metal showerhead and gritting his teeth at the burning sensation brought on by soap. He moved from the shower over to a sink to brush his teeth and from there made his way to his cot.

Sleep was nothing more than a blink of the eye, one moment lying on his side in the dark, the next awaking to the sound of creaking bed springs and the other soldiers getting up. He looked around for a cue as for what to do. His gray uniform had been placed at the end of his bed, freshly laundered. He changed and followed the line to the bathroom and then to the mess hall. Once he finished his food, he hovered near a table, stretching his legs until an announcement was made to return to the sleeping quarters.

Doctors came around, checking vitals, asking questions. He complied with what was asked of him, and afterwards, resumed staring at a wall. His head didn't itch as much as it had the previous night.

Sergeant Riggs came into the room to gather him along with two of the other soldiers. Riggs brought them to a smaller room he had not been in before, one with several screens taken up by pictures, maps, and other information. Dr. Henson was there as well. She explained that their mission today, along with as many members as they chose for their tactical team, was to assassinate the Secretary of Defense, who would be replaced with a Hydra ally.

"Make sure there is at least one witness to spread the word," Dr. Henson ordered. She looked directly at him. "I will expect you to make the killing blow, Captain." He nodded, ready to do what was necessary. "Excellent. This is the information available to you all." She held her hands out towards the screens. "What are your thoughts?"

They read and strategized and debated. Dr. Henson stepped back for the most part and allowed him and his fellow soldiers the run of the room. The Secretary would be returning to Washington D.C. in the morning, which limited their time and options, but after several hours of debate, they came to a consensus.

Their plan required a team of seven, several weapons, and technology which would both black out any security on the house and interrupt any wireless signals in the area. The witness was easy enough, the Secretary's wife.

The plan went off without a hitch. The team took out all of the security guards without allowing them to get off a single shot. Private Cannali was able to open the safe room where the Secretary and his wife had taken cover, perhaps having heard the muffled noises and thumps coming from their backyard. The Secretary had a gun, but lowered it when he saw the many more guns pointed at him and his wife.

For some reason, the Secretary's eyes kept darting to him while he asked that his wife be left alive.

"Give me your gun," said Lieutenant Reese.

The Secretary seemed hesitate, but handed over the gun. "Please, I'll go with you. I'll go with you."

He stepped forward and took the Secretary's shoulder, pushing him up against the wall. His wife gasped, the first display of fear from her. She had shown a steely indignation so far, whereas her husband was trembling.

The Secretary craned to look back, blubbering, "You don't have to do this. God, oh my god. Please."

He hefted his shield. "Hold still." It would make the death cleaner. He drew back his arm as far as it could go and thrust it forward with all his strength. The wife started screaming when her husband's head rolled to the floor. He gripped the body in one hand and ordered, "Get the head." His mission had been to kill the Secretary and leave a witness. No need to leave that witness with her decapitated husband.

His command was met with slightly baffled looks, but they removed the head. The Secretary's wife was left locked inside the safe room. Once they left the premises, the phone in the room would begin working again.

They reached the bunker in the early morning hours, but Dr. Henson was awake and waiting for a report. She seemed satisfied with the results, an approving smile lifting the corner of her mouth. Until a voice blared over the loudspeakers.

" _This time it's the Secretary of Defense, huh?"_ He recognized the voice. It was the woman from the video he had seen yesterday. _"Hate to break it to you, but the word of a traumatized wife isn't gonna go very far."_

Dr. Henson's open-mouth disbelief turned rapidly to fury. She stalked across the room, coming to an abrupt halt as one of the doctors rushed into the main area. "What's going on? Turn this off."

" _We're onto you."_

The doctor trembled with nerves, eyes darting between her and the closest speaker. "We're trying. They've hacked the servers."

" _You'd better hope the Avengers don't get to you before you get to them. Although, I don't really think it'll go well for you either way."_

Dr. Henson knocked the tablet she held by her side against her leg and peered at the speaker like a puzzle. "Do they know where we are?"

"No. We're bouncing the signal." The doctor glanced at her own tablet. "And it looks like we aren't the only one receiving this."

" _Oh, and I wouldn't bother trying to post this anywhere or you'll find some very nasty things happening to your computer system."_

"They're just testing the waters," Dr. Henson murmured. She lowered her gaze to the doctor. "Can you tell where else this has been sent?"

"We can try." The doctor tapped out something on her tablet. "Devens has located the source; he's working on the other targets. He thinks there's fifty or sixty."

"Less worrying than if it had been just us, but all the same."

With a click, the speakers went silent. The volume had been turned up so loud that his ears rang. The threatening message had obviously been from an enemy source, possibly these Avengers. His guess would be that its purpose had been to flush them out of the bunker like foxes from a den. But as Dr. Henson didn't ask for his opinion, he said nothing.

"All right. I want full details." Dr. Henson headed for one of the hallways with the doctor on her heels, but seemed to remember last minute the soldiers still standing at attention. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than the rest. "Get cleaned up and get some rest. I suspect I will have another mission lined up for you shortly."

Shortly turned out to be two days later. His headache had returned during the night, but he was called out of the sleeping quarters before the doctors made their rounds. The mission was to eliminate a high profile banker and several of his associates. As with before, Dr. Henson insisted there be a witness, but she specified that witness must record proof on their phone or similar device and upload it to the Internet.

The mission was technically a success. He, along with a tactical team of five, surrounded the banker and his associates on a golf course. Sergeant Riggs dragged over a man who had been playing at a neighboring hole with his son to record the assassination. When the man fumbled with his phone, mumbling profuse apologies and visibly sweating, the son volunteered to take his place.

His head felt like it had swollen to three times its size and his stomach churned like he had been spinning in circles. He swung his shield once, but it didn't hit right, nearly severing the banker's arm and half his shoulder instead. He stared at the howling man as warm blood spatter trickled down his face. Then, he instructed his team to shoot all of their targets because he wasn't sure he could make the kills clean. They needed to be in and out as soon as possible.

One of his fellow soldiers asked if he was all right as they sprinted from the golf course. He nodded so as not to detract from their escape priority. The sense of dizziness increased as they drove and he closed his eyes. Again he was asked if he was all right. He shrugged.

"I think some of that blood's coming out of his nose," Lieutenant Kasun whispered.

He remembered Private Ganna shaking on the floor, blood pouring from her nose. He hadn't seen her since the doctors took her away.

The car jerked forward as Sergeant Riggs pushed down harder on the gas pedal. The hours both blurred and dragged. He heard a siren at one point, and then gunfire, and then nothing. His stomach lurched as the car came to a sudden stop. He stumbled getting out of the car, and felt arms wrap around his shoulders, supporting him.

Heels clicked across the floor of the bunker towards him. Dr. Henson asked, "What happened to him?"

"His nose has been bleeding," Sergeant Riggs reported. "He hasn't started seizing yet."

Breath hissed through Dr. Henson's teeth. He was half carried to a room and lowered onto a bed. Doctors surrounded him, shining lights, lowering a contraption over his head, standing back for a moment, coming forward again, sticking a needle into his arm. All the while they chattered back and forth, words bouncing over him.

"… accelerated heart rate…"

"… temperature's spiked…"

"He's not showing any muscle spasms, but…"

"… effects of the last treatment. Perhaps it was too intensive even for…"

"… possible permanent damage at the least, but all the previous ones have –"

"We can't lose this one," Dr. Henson snapped. "Not yet. Give him the gababpentin and prep him for cryo."

More needles jabbed into him. He was stripped of his clothes, which he tried to help with but stopped when instructed. He had begun to feel woozy as a cool, wet cloth scrubbed across his face. The doctors wheeled him across the hallway into a room so cold that his skin turned to goose flesh. They aided him in getting off the gurney and into a large metal box. Tubes hooked into his arms and pads attached to his chest and legs. They closed the lid, and ice crystals formed immediately across it. He closed his eyes and felt ice forming across them too, encrusting his lips, his nose, and everywhere else. And at last, he let himself drift.

* * *

He sat on a chair examining several columns of unrelated words displayed on a screen embedded in the table before him. After fifteen seconds, the words would disappear, and he would be expected to relay as many of the words as he could remember. Then, a new set of words would appear, the process beginning all over again. Dr. Henson had asked him to keep track of the first word in each set to be repeated at the end of the session. He remembered going through this exercise several days ago. Even the words looked familiar. And it was easier to complete the exercises when his head no longer ached. The doctors had seemed relieved about that his headache was gone.

After he repeated back the majority of the latest columns of words, the doctor asked for the first word from each set.

"Dog. Ambivalent. Key. Mockery. Mice. Marrow. Understand. Hiss. Lately. Rice." He went on through all two hundred words.

Dr. Henson did something on the tablet in her hand before setting it aside. She considered him and said, "You remember what I told you is the mission of this organization?"

"To make the world a better place," he stated. "To make order out of chaos."

She nodded. "That is what I said, but only as a partial truth. That is partly Hydra's mission, and partly mine. But it has also become yours. Are you prepared to die for this better world?"

He nodded without any hesitation.

"Good. Because I have a mission for you." Dr. Henson touched her tablet and pulled, and an image appeared on the table screen. It was the woman from the video, the woman whose voice had sounded over the speakers. "This is Becca Stroud. Over the past weeks she has undermined what we stand for by denying your existence, and she has powerful allies in high places. Your mission is to eliminate her at all cost. I will fit you with a camera here –" Dr. Henson pointed to her right eye. "– which will capture those last moments and send them to one of our servers, so that we can show the world the truth." She folded her hands. "Our intel says that she has a few of those powerful friends with her at all times. If they capture you, or you feel that your capture is an inevitable outcome, you are to swallow a fast-acting toxic agent. This will be fitted under a cap in place of one of your teeth. Is that all understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The process began immediately. A doctor took out one of his molars and replaced it with the toxin. All it would take to break the cap was for him to shift his bottom jaw to the right and bite down. Next, he went to strategize with his team. Ms. Stroud was currently staying in an isolated house in the woods which belonged to a Dr. Bruce Banner, part of the Avengers. The set up smelled of a trap, which Dr. Henson confirmed. She also had gotten information from an inside source about the other current occupants of the house: Natasha Romaov, Sam Wilson, Thor Odinson, and possibly Tony Stark.

Strategizing for this mission did not take as much time since his team had already been planning while he was unconscious, and mostly ended up briefing him. He was to remain the in tree line with a cloaking device attached to his wrist that would block him from being detected by thermal or other scans, though not make him invisible to the naked eye. The other soldiers, one of whom would dress in his uniform and carry his shield, would create a diversion by attacking the house under cover of a similar cloaking device. The camera – fitted onto his eye like a contact lens – had several other functions beyond recording video, including thermal imaging which should allow him to track Ms. Stroud. He would use a chemical compound in order to create any necessary doors.

There remained a number of variables and some luck would be needed, but he could not think of a better strategy. So he gave some advice after observing videos of their adversaries in combat and agreed to the rest.

The team, the largest they had used, was split in two. One would cover an aerial assault, while the other came in on the ground. He was dropped with the ground team, and they headed towards the house on foot. When the house came into sight through the trees, he stopped and watched the others creep forward. He did not expect to see any of them again. Their lives or deaths were out of his hands. Only the mission mattered.

He blinked and suddenly patches of reds, yellows, and purples appeared in his right eye. The thermal imaging had been turned on. He could see figures moving in the house.

The ground vibrated, reds and whites blooming on the other side of the house where a rocket had gone off. He could see the figures scrambling around inside the house. Two went outside, and he saw in his left eye Tony Stark rising into the air. There were three figures still in the house. One was far too large to be Ms. Stroud. The other two seemed smaller, more feminine. The heavier figure would be his target.

He sprinted across the open ground pulling a canister out from a strap on his leg. He sprayed the compound on a window. The glass bubbled and melted away in seconds. He took a step back and dove through the hole, somersaulting and pressing up onto his feet. Ms. Stroud was on the other side of the wall. He would make a hole, snap her neck, and run.

He sprayed the compound on the wall and dropped the canister. Layers of plaster and padding disintegrated as easily as the glass had.

Ms. Stroud stood there, her back to him, framed by pale blue walls. The room had almost nothing inside but his target.

The thermal imaging turned off. He stepped into the room, reaching out. She turned to look at him, and she recognized him. He could tell be the flare of her eyelids, the way she took a quick breath.

"Steve, just give me one chance," Ms. Stroud pleaded. "I can explain everything."

He took her jaw in his hand, ready to snap her neck.

And someone leapt on top of him, knocking him to the side. He let go of Ms. Stroud and rolled, detaching himself. He got to his feet and stared down at Ms. Romanov. She was quick on her feet, flexible, and well trained in hand-to-hand combat. He would have to take her down with brute strength as fast as possible.

"Don't make me hurt you, Rogers," she said. "We just wanna talk." He charged at her. "Fine."

She ducked his charge and went for a low punch, which he expected, so he caught it, which she expected as flipped over him. Their fight was a dance in which the partners barely touched, anticipating each other's moves with such each that any punch was caught, any kick leapt over. He tried boxing her in a corner, but she was too smart for that.

Suddenly, a handgun was pointing at his chest. Ms. Romaov clicked off the safety. "Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head, or I pull the trigger."

He saw movement in the corner of his eye. Ms. Stroud had retreated to a corner of the room, but she hadn't made to leave or he would have gone after her. She came out of the corner and moved next to Ms. Romanov. "Just do what she said."

He looked at Ms. Romanov, assessed her. The cap covering the toxin seemed to be pressing against his teeth, ready to crack open. But he would not have to bite down. She would make the shot. He dove.

The gun went off, but Ms. Stroud had shoved Ms. Romanov aside. Ms. Romaov staggered, shoving Ms. Stroud back, but got caught off guard by Ms. Stroud's foot sweeping out and knocking her legs out from under her.

He managed to catch himself on a wall, straightening and bringing his foot down on Ms. Romaov's arm. A bone snapped and she let out a yell. He picked up a huge padded armchair and dropped it on top of her. Her head smacked against the ground, and she stopped moving. He picked up the gun.

"Oh my god," Ms. Stroud gasped. She scrambled over to Ms. Romanov and put her hands on the chair in an effort to push it off.

He pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Ms. Stroud's head. She started, jerking her head to the side and back an inch.

"Wait." She put up a hand between herself and the gun, looking terrified for the first time. "Wait, wait, wait. Steve, you have to listen to me. Please, please listen to me."

His finger tightened on the trigger.

She trembled, looking up at him, eyes filling with tears. "I love you. Don't do this. Just – just give me ten seconds. Ten seconds."

He listened to the battle going on outside. Ten seconds might make the difference. And yet, no one else had come inside so far. However, Dr. Henson had warned him not to listen to anything his target said. But nothing his target was saying was making sense. He could not understand why she would tell him that she loved him.

Ms. Stroud must have taken the hesitation as agreement "O-okay. I thought a lot about this. Try to think of a happy memory. Really, really try, okay?"

"I don't have any memories," he informed her, shifting the gun.

"Ten seconds. Just try."

Unsure how this could be any strategy to get out of the situation, he tried. He thought back. But he couldn't remember feeling happy, or sad, or angry. He knew these words, knew their meaning, but he couldn't imagine how to apply them to the few days he remembered.

Text appeared in blinking red across his right eye. _"Finish the mission."_

He had his orders. He had to do this. "I don't have any."

Sadness flooded Mr. Stroud's face. No, he recognized the emotion as more than that. He thought that she looked heart-broken. "Would you like to share one of my memories?"

He didn't understand this woman. He didn't understand what she wanted, what she was trying to do. There was no deceit in her expression. She hadn't tried to run. She had stopped Ms. Romanov from shooting him. And now she was offering up one of her memories like a gift he had no clue why he deserved.

What he did understand was that he couldn't shoot her. The death was too cold and brutal, and the thought of pulling the trigger made him feel something he couldn't name. It wasn't strong, but the feeling was there in the pit of his stomach where he couldn't remember feeling anything before. He would not shoot her.

Still, the mission was more important than any feeling. He got down on his knees and set aside the gun.

Ms. Stroud smiled, letting out a breath that was both relief and a laugh. "So it's not a big memory, but I thought details would be more important. But if you could first help me lift –"

He reached out, grabbing one shoulder so he could pull her up against him while turning her so she faced away.

"What –"

He brought his other hand up over her mouth and nose and pressed them tight. She squirmed but he held her firmly, and he would keep holding her until she stopped breathing. It felt better somehow, like he was doing the right thing. And yet, he had turned her away from him because a niggling voice told him that he wouldn't have been able to look in her eyes.

* * *

It had been just another quiet night in the house. The kind of quiet that came right before a storm, but that had been the case pretty much every night.

The plan to lure Steve out of hiding by completely denying that it had been him taking part in the attacks and then making her location hard but not impossible to trace when they sent out a broadcast to all the secure networks that had been regularly updating on the situation didn't seem to be working, and Becca was thinking of calling the whole thing off. She was certain at least a few of the Avengers would have agreed. Anyway, she had never liked this plan. She had promised herself she was done lying to the press. Done. But this entire plan rested on a lie. And what made it worse was that she had to point fingers at witnesses and call them liars. She had almost backed out, but insisted instead that she be allowed to contact the Secretary of Defense's widow and the father and son who had been at the golf course to explain things. The widow had been unbelievably understanding, the father not so much.

Becca felt terrible. She'd barely been sleeping. She was on edge all the time. It wasn't like this was the Avengers' only plan. They definitely had more than one thing going, constantly rotating in an out of the house, which Dr. Banner had graciously volunteered – He said that he hadn't been living in it long anyway, and from the lack of personal effects and minimal furniture, she believed it – so the only constants had been Thor and Natasha.

She wasn't entirely sure why Natasha had volunteered for guard duty, but she was putting her tech skills to use with a laptop almost always in hand so Becca hadn't said anything. With Thor, she figured he wanted to make up for the attack on the tower. The only person who hadn't made an appearance was Dr. Banner, which she had found kind of odd considering it was his house. She asked Natasha, who told her that he was being better used elsewhere. Not entirely satisfied with that answer, she went to Tony, who had straight up told her they didn't want the Hulk killing Steve right away or her if she got in the middle of things. The "right away" had struck her as off. When she pressed Tony about it, he had put the kitchen table between them and then informed her that their priorities were about containment and not necessarily rescue.

The next few moments had been a blur of anger which might have involved her throwing a pan at him and stalking out of the house. Sam had eventually talked her back inside, assuring her that no one was going to kill Steve. She had asked him not to leave the house after that morning, and he hadn't.

As soon as an explosion had sounded next to the house, she had bolted up from bed and ran to the living room. Sam was already swinging on his gear, thankfully because she noticed that the Iron Man suit – which had been sitting in a small container in the corner – was gone. Natasha had shepherded her to room in the center of the house. It had been soundproofed; the walls had been painted a calming blue, and all the room contained was a plush chair and a dock for an iPod. Must be a kind of Hulk-prevention room. Too anxious to sit in the chair, she paced until Steve had opened up a hole in wall.

She had thought that she got through to him again. She really did. Despite his knocking out Natasha and pointing a gun at her head. But now he was smothering her.

From a moment, Becca was simply confused. She was breathing and then she wasn't. Stupidly all she could think was that she had just been talking. She hadn't even finished her sentence. This couldn't be happening. Then, instinct took over. She thrashed against Steve. Her mouth opened a bit, but no air came through. She tasted dirt and fabric. She reached back to go for his eyes, but he had one arm locked around her so she could only move her arms from the elbow down. Her fingers curved into talons, and she clawed at him as she bucked repeatedly in an attempt to break free. Steve wasn't Steve anymore. He wasn't anyone, just this thing that prevented her from breathing. Her chest tightened; her eyes filled with white and dark spots.

A loud crash sounded behind them, and Steve was yanked back. Becca flopped onto the floor, gasping in huge breaths of air. The world went in and out of focus as oxygen came rushing back into her lungs. Thor had pulled Steve off and tossed him across the room. Huge cracks had appeared in the wall where Steve crashed into it.

Oh god, if Thor hit Steve with Mjonir. "Don't," she croaked.

Thor threw Mjonir, but Steve managed to avoid it by diving behind the overturned chair. Steve landed in a crouch and launched himself at her, but Mjonir clipped his shoulder on the way back to Thor, sending him to the floor with a sickening crunch. When he pushed himself up, blood streamed from his nose and he spat out a tooth.

She had to incapacitate him somehow. Had to make him stop. Becca scanned the room frantically and spotted Natasha's handgun within reach. Her stomach recoiled at the thought of touching the gun, but she had no choice. She had no time. She grabbed the gun, aimed at his legs and pulled the trigger until the bangs became clicks. Her hands shook, messing with her aim, but Steve had been getting up not three feet away and one of the bullets hit his heel in a spray of blood and bone.

Steve bellowed, collapsing to that side.

Becca dropped the gun. Just dropped it to the floor. She was lucky it didn't go off again.

Thor closed the distance in quick strides.

"Knock him out!" Was that her voice? She sounded so shrill. "Just knock him out!"

Steve looked up at Thor with resignation, pain showing in the tension in his jaw, which shifted to the right. His lips parted.

Mjonir smacked into Steve's head with a sound that stopped Becca's heart, and Steve crumpled. She crawled towards him. "Oh my god, is he – Did you –?"

"It was not a killing blow," Thor stated. And sure enough, Becca could see Steve's chest rising and falling.

She murmured, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." Steve was alive. They had him. He needed to get to a hospital, but they had him. "Natasha, she's under that chair."

Becca pointed to Natasha's still unconscious form. Thor set Mjonir down on top of Steve's back and lifted the chair off of Natasha.

She heard a sparking sound and looked at Steve. Smoke leaked between his right eyelids. What the hell? She lifted the top eyelid and saw a dark film covering his eye. His eyelid began to twitch, and he stirred. Seriously, what the fucking hell? She touched the film and drew her finger back. The film was hot. Oh no, that could not be good for his eye. Bracing herself to get burned, she picked at and edge where she saw white. The film came off like a contact lens and she tossed it aside. It smoked and starting to sink into the floor. She had a sick feeling it would have sunk right through Steve's head if she hadn't pulled it out.

All of a sudden, she noticed how quiet it was. She stared up at the ceiling. The fight seemed to have ceased all at once. She looked to Thor, must have had the same thought. He had picked Natasha up, cradling her in one arm like a life-sized doll, but looked like he was contemplating putting her back down. Her skin prickled.

Footsteps ran in through one of the rooms. "Thor?" Sam called. "Are –"

"We're all in here!" Becca called. Sam came running, wings folded up on his back. Tony flew in after him and landed on the floor. "Steve and Natasha need to go to a hospital."

Tony said, "J.A.R.V.I.S. can call an ambulance. I'll meet them on the way." He held out his arms for Natasha.

Becca bit back an argument that Steve should go first, since he'd been shot and hit with freaking Mjonir. Natasha needed help, too. They could get started driving the car – assuming it was not blown up – and Tony could meet them.

Thor deposited Natasha in Tony's arms and Mjonir flew back into his hands. "I will follow with Captain Rogers."

Even better. She touched Steve's cheek. He felt warm.

Tony shrugged. "Just try to keep up," he said, and blasted out the door with Natasha.

Thor scooped up Steve, who lolled limply in his arms. Blood dripped from his heel.

"You should put something on his heel," Becca insisted. "Make sure there's pressure on it. Before you go. I'll, um, I'll…"

Sam volunteered, "I got it." He headed out of the room and Thor followed after him. Becca came behind them. She was starting to feel oddly cold and a little dizzy. Might be shock. Sam retrieved a hand towel from the kitchen to wrap up Steve's heel. Thor left through the front door, whirling Mjonir over his head until they rocketed up into the sky.

Looking out the window, Becca spotted the bodies scattered on the ground and the smoking remnants of a plane. Holy shit. "What happened out there?"

"They all dropped at once," Sam said. "Must be the same thing that happened in the tower." He pulled down the window shade, but not before Becca got a glimpse of red, white, and blue glinting in the moonlight.

She went for the front door in a near daze, wandering out. So many lives lost. Maybe all good men and women once. And in among them she found a man dressed in Steve's uniform. She picked up Steve's shield, clutched it close to her chest. Sam draped a blanket from the back of the couch over her shoulders and ushered her back inside.

They had gotten Steve back. She should be over the moon. But she wasn't. Becca pressed the shield tighter, cold metal pinching her breast. She still felt terrible.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Sorry for the delay everyone. I was very sick last week, and then my beta needed a few day before getting this chapter back to me. Back on schedule for next week, when Steve and Becca have some actual face-to-face for the first time in a long time.**


	15. In The Eye Of The Storm

Tony returned from dropping off Natasha with a squad of police cars in tow. The dirt rumbled under their tires, car doors opened, and for a second, all Becca heard was silence as they took in the ghastly scene, likely more bodies than any of the cops had seen at once in this rural area. Of course, Becca had experienced a sense of dread herself as Sam stepped in front of her, not knowing who had driven up to the house until Tony announced his presence. Once the cops had questioned them, Sam offered to drive Becca to the hospital to see Steve. She accepted and climbed into the passenger seat of his car, which had escaped the explosion relatively unscathed – the same could not be said for Tony's car. As she looked out the window at the littered bodies of Hydra soldiers being examined and photographed, she rubbed the edge of Steve's shield.

She hadn't been able to put it down, apart from changing out of her pajamas. Even when given a glass of water or slipping into her shoes to leave, she held the shield to her chest like the world's hardest security blanket. Dirt and smears of bloody drool had been carefully scrubbed away with a washcloth over the bathroom sink, leaving the surface gleaming.

One of the cops had asked for it, saying it was police evidence. A sudden burst of panic had overcome her, and Becca had started crying and shaking her head. She didn't know what came over her, only that she couldn't let the cop, or anyone else for that matter, take the shield away. He had made his voice gentler, reaching out to pull the shield from her grasp, but she had darted up from the couch, almost knocking him over.

Sam had taken the cop aside, and Becca had no idea what he said, but the cop had let her keep the shield, although he looked peeved at the arraignment. She didn't care. She still had the shield, and that's what she cared about.

Both Natasha and Steve had been taken to a local county hospital. A police escort showed Sam the way through winding woodland roads and sleepy towns, the streets dark at the late hour. Halfway through the drive, rain started to fall in a dribble that rapidly became sheets of water. The world blurred outside the car, wind whipping the rain to a gale. Through the storm, Becca spotted a flower shop in one of the towns. Its bright, cheerful color scheme promised the perfect gift to make up for the night's misery. Too bad it wasn't open. Getting flowers for people in the hospital seemed the thing to do. But no, it'd have been stupid, an apology that could never be enough, no matter how many flowers she bought.

'Natasha, I know I shoved you, tripped you, and let Steve drop a chair on you, but here's some daffodils!'

'Steve, I know I totally shot you, but look at this giant sunflower I bought you!'

Becca grimaced. Better the shop wasn't open. She closed her eyes, but the darkness behind them stifled her, pressure ghosting across her mouth as rain pounded on the car like muffled gunfire. She blinked. Don't think about what happened. Focus on Steve. She shifted her grip on the shield, rubbed her palm along an edge. Everything would be okay.

Sam pulled into a nearly empty parking lot. Word must not have gotten out yet about the hospital's latest occupants. She should send a text to Devika at some point to give her a heads up. She had been corresponding with her a bit while at Dr. Banner's house in order to manage the media angle, and after all the help Devika had given, it seemed like she should be kept in the loop. But maybe the press did already know and it was just taking awhile to reach the small town.

Becca tucked the shield under her jacket. No need to call extra attention for now. Although people might wonder why she had a shield-shaped object hidden under her jacket. But it was late – or early – so it probably wouldn't matter either way. Still, she'd like to keep the shield from getting wet, pointless as the fuss may be.

The police escort got them past the front desk. A nurse informed them that both Natasha and Steve were awake, though Steve had been sedated. Thor was keeping an eye on him.

Originally, Becca planned to make a beeline for Steve, but as they got closer and she thought of being in a room with him, her stomach began to cramp and a cold sweat dampened the back of her neck. She was just nervous about talking to him. That was all. Anyone would have the jitters about talking to their brainwashed assassin significant other. Especially after shooting them. All the same, he wasn't going to mind if she checked in on Natasha first.

Natasha lay propped up in bed with a cast on her right arm. A deep purple bruise spread along half of her forehead and disappeared into her hairline. She sat up straighter when the door opened, her face creasing in a wince. The sight of the cast and bruise made Becca feel like wincing herself.

"I'm so, so sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

"You were protecting Rogers."

Natasha didn't sound angry, but even after living together, Becca sometimes had difficulty deciphering her feelings. She had pushed Natasha aside because seeing Natasha's blank expression and the gun pointed at Steve had reminded her about what Tony had said. That, according to him and possibly the other Avengers as well, containment took precedence over rescue. Fear had spurred her to move on instinct. Looking at the painful bruise, she thought of asking if Natasha really would have shot to kill, but decided she'd rather not know.

"Everyone else?" Natasha asked.

Sam replied, "A couple of scrapes and Dr. Banner will have to go house hunting, but that's it."

With a slight lift of her cast-free arm, Natasha indicated the door. "I heard Rogers got a room, too."

Becca nodded. "Thor hit him in the head with Mjonir."

Natasha's eyebrows rose. "Must not have hit him hard."

"Hard enough, I guess. I don't know. I haven't seen him yet," she admitted. "I wanted to check on you first." Natasha looked faintly puzzled. That expression Becca could read, and it made her embarrassed. Like she was being a terrible girlfriend for not immediately rushing to Steve's side. "I should probably go do that."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Sam offered.

"No, no. I'm fine. And Thor's there anyway." She gave Natasha a wave, which necessitated awkwardly hugging the shield with one arm, and promised, "I'll come back later."

Their police escort had been talking to a hospital security guard stationed outside of Natasha's room, and the guard pointed her down the hall. Aware of the shield tucked beneath her jacket, the police escort warned her off handing Steve his shield back. She assured her that she planned on keeping it herself. No way putting the shield in Steve's hands right now would lead anywhere good. Enough heads had rolled that way. She shuddered.

Becca glanced in through door windows as she passed through the dimly lit hallway. Most rooms were dark, their occupants asleep, but here a patient watched TV and there she caught the glint of open eyes reflecting the orange glow of a monitor. She loathed being in hospitals, and decided that she loathed it even more at night. There was a reason this setting was so popular in horror movies. Unease grew inside her with each echoing step.

The light was on in Steve's room, shining out into the corridor, but her feeling of unease did not dissipate as Becca peeked inside. Steve lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his face impassive. His arms had been bound to the railings with several sets of restraints. He must have tried to fight. Or the doctors had been warned to anticipate one. His right leg had been propped up and the heel bandaged. The nurse who had walked them to Natasha's room had said he would need to be taken to a major hospital for the necessary surgery once an ambulance freed up. The few this hospital had were out on emergency calls, and his busted heel wasn't life threatening.

Which did nothing to lessen her guilt. She had caused an injury bad enough to require surgery. She had shot Steve. It could have been more than once if her aim hadn't been so awful in the moment. The trigger had clicked multiple times before she had even registered the sound and dropped the gun. Why was it that in every stressful situation she flew completely out of control? All that Keysi training, all her yoga, NA meetings, everything chucked out the window.

Becca considered herself a go-with-the-flow kind of person, except when it came to herself. She didn't like knowing that her body could take over her mind in such a violent way. And she especially didn't like knowing that violence could come out directed at someone she loved. After pulling some seriously fucked up shit on Steve while addicted to pills, she had thought this part of herself had been put on lockdown, but apparently not. If shooting at Steve hadn't made her snap out of it, then she had no control.

But it didn't matter now. Getting Steve's memories back mattered. She squeezed the shield in her arms once for reassurance and opened the door.

Steve turned his head to look at her. His eyes had this unfocused cast. Must be the sedatives. Thor had stationed himself near the foot of the bed. A chair had been moved beside him, an offer or instruction from a nurse that had been abandoned once they left the room.

"Hi," Becca said to Thor. "Thanks for getting him here."

"It was no trouble," Thor assured her.

"You didn't get hurt or anything in the attack?" In her shell-shocked state, she hadn't been looking at him too closely before he flew off with Steve.

He grinned like she had made a joke. "No. I am quite well."

"Good. That's good." Becca glanced to Steve. She saw him focusing on her, as much as he could focus through the haze of sedatives. Her skin prickled, and she hated that prickle. "Hey." She forced a smile. "How're you feeling?"

Steve watched her, but he didn't say anything.

After a moment, Thor informed her, "He has not spoken. I have told him what I thought he should know, but –" He shook his head. "– he offers no response."

Becca chewed her lip. Hydra had obviously told Steve that she and the Avengers were the bad guys. If he was still under that impression, he would be determined to keep quiet. Steve wasn't the type to crack easy if captured. Plus, he must have a killer headache from taking a mythological hammer to the head. She would have to talk quietly and work on getting him to open up a bit. He had, after all, talked to her before instead of murdering her right away. She decided to give Thor a nudge out the door.

"Would you mind giving us a minute?"

Thor inclined his head. "I will be outside should you have need of me." He hefted Mjonir, eyeing Steve with an unspoken warning, and made his exit.

Just her and Steve alone for the first time since before he got brainwashed. And all Becca wanted to do as he stared at her was call Thor back into the room. Her every nerve ending tingled, insisting that she had walked into the den of a lion on a thin leash. But she wouldn't listen and she wasn't going to get Thor. She refused. She was going to set aside her fear and be useful for a change.

Because she did have control of that much.

* * *

He watched Ms. Stroud pull the chair beside his bed, but well out of arm's reach. He might be able to rip through the restraints on his arms and left leg. However, he felt heavy from the drugs coursing through his veins from an IV, and he didn't trust himself to be fast enough to grab his target before Thor could burst in through the door and pull her away.

He also didn't trust himself to speak, and so hadn't thus far. His thoughts had a slippery quality, fading in and out with each throb of his head. His tongue probed the gap where the toxin had been concealed. Someone must have forewarned the hospital because it had been gone when he woke. Assuming the Avengers had examined the bodies left at their tower, they might have guessed he would have the same false tooth-cap.

Thor had not mentioned the toxin. He had explained a supposed deception that Hydra was in truth an organization with immoral intentions that had him assassinating good people.

But he did not believe Thor. He knew who was on the wrong side, and he was surrounded by them now. He would not let himself be taken in by their lies. He would finish the mission if he could, but at this point, he was waiting for an opportunity to end his own life as ordered. He refused to be the person who brought all of Dr. Henson's work to better this world crashing down.

Ms. Stroud put her wet jacket over the back of the chair, dropped her purse at her feet, and sat. She hugged his shield in her arms, its appearance unexpected even though he had considered the bulky shape beneath her jacket. He wondered why she had brought it. To allow his weapon this close was an error on her part. But then, he doubted he could reach his shield with any more speed than he could reach her. He figured that she might have brought it to taunt him, but read no malice in her expression.

She noticed him looking and patted his shield gently. "I'm holding onto this for you. Is that okay?"

He knew she wouldn't hand his shield back to him if he said no, so he said nothing. She glanced back over her shoulder at the door, where Thor lurked on the other side. He made her nervous. He read the tension in the inward curve of her shoulders, the dip where his shield pushed against her breasts from being pressed there. He figured that made sense since he had attempted to kill her.

"I'm sorry I shot you."

It was a well-placed shot, but he knew the hit had been luck. She had fired the gun too many times for it to be anything else. She had been trying to incapacitate him, and she had screamed at Thor to knock him out. Which made him figure that she was the one pulling the strings behind the Avengers. She wanted to get information out of him, whereas they might have killed him outright.

She would not be getting any information. He would not fall for any of her tricks. Whatever those tricks may be, as some of her behavior from when he spoken with her at the house still confused him.

Ms. Stroud rubbed the edge of his shield and said, "So we got kind of, um, interrupted back at – Well, I was going to share with you a memory, so – You know what? I'm sorry. Let me start over since we have the time." She took a deep breath. "My name's Becca. I know you don't remember me or probably much of anything before Hydra, so do you have any questions? I definitely won't be able to fill in all the blanks, but we've been dating for about two years, so I like to think I know some things about you."

His eyebrows pinched together. This was one part of her strategy that confused him. Ms. Stroud had said she loved him before, and now she claimed that they were an item. Most notably, she hadn't used the past tense either time. The only thought he could come up with was that she might be hoping to convince him that they were in love and he should therefore spill out his secrets to her. But it seemed a real odd avenue to choose before something simpler, like torture or even basic questioning.

"No? Okay. Then, I'll lay out the basics," Ms. Stroud stated. "Your name is Steven Grant Rogers, but you go by Steve. You grew up in Brooklyn, New York. Your birthday is July fourth, nineteen… Ugh. I always forgot this. Seventeen? Eighteen? Give me a sec."

She dug through her purse and retrieved what he initially took to be an empty metal frame until she held her hand over it and images popped up. She tapped the images, fingers moving so fast that it made him too dizzy to watch.

"Nineteen-eighteen."

Her index finger pressed on the frame, and the images disappeared. She placed the empty frame back into her purse and continued, "You were an artist until you joined the army during World War Two when you got this special serum called the 'super-soldier serum' which made you big and buff and super fast and strong and all that jazz. And you got the name Captain America. You crashed a plane after a fight with the leader of Hydra at the time, and woke up in the twenty-first century where you've been superheroing with and without the Avengers and working for S.H.I.E.L.D. And dating me. Aaaaaand I think that's the basics." She cocked her head, the darting motion like that of a bird. "Now do you have questions?"

He had a lot of questions, and yet none at all because what Ms. Stroud had told him was impossible. He knew people didn't go crashing planes only to wake up decades later, and if he had been born in 1918, he would be almost a hundred years old. Again, he was confused as to why she would pick such a strange lie. Perhaps that was her strategy: confusion. He didn't think it was a very sound strategy, although his head did hurt something fierce trying to piece all of this apart.

"Your favorite food is apple cake?" In her probing tone, he heard repeated, 'Now do you have questions?'

He couldn't remember eating apple cake.

"You're a really light sleeper?"

She could be right, but he wasn't sure. He went to bed when instructed and woke up every morning like clockwork.

"You like historical and political nonfiction and comics because you're actually a huge nerd?"

He knew people had hobbies like reading. He must have had hobbies himself before his memories had been erased. But he couldn't fathom sitting down to enjoy something like a comic. He had a job, and when he was not on a mission, he had no desire to do anything. He was supposed to wait for the next mission.

When he didn't give her a response, she sighed. "You know, if you ask me questions I'm not gonna, like, turn around and say you have to answer my questions now. This isn't gonna turn into an interrogation."

He had no reason to believe her, but neither could he think of a question to ask. If she had gotten information about his past, he was not that person anymore.

"Okay, well, I was going to share a happy memory with you, so I guess I'll do that then." Ms. Stroud shifted back against her chair. She stared at a point on his chest as she spoke, occasionally meeting his eyes, but never quite able to hold his gaze. "There was a youth program for disadvantaged kids through the Brooklyn Museum. It was a weeklong afterschool program, and they reached out to you, I guess through Devika, and you agreed to teach for a day. I knew you got there a little late because there was something with a mission you were on, and so you had to catch a different flight, and the usual, basically. I thought I'd come by towards the end so we could go right out to dinner since I didn't think you'd have had the time to eat. I got to peek in, and you were…"

She smiled. The tension drained from her shoulders, and she seemed to sink down into her seat an inch. Her hands brushed his shield instead of clutching it. He thought she looked prettier with that smile, though still bedraggled and tired.

"You had on a green shirt, which I remember distinctly because there was purple paint smeared on half your sleeve." Ms. Stroud laughed, but her amusement was tampered when she momentarily met his gaze and a sliver of the tension crept back in. "You'd been teaching about drawing, not painting, but paints had been left out and some of the kids wanted to use them between sketches. You were in front of one of the kids, a girl. There were these long tables pushed together in a horseshoe shape and you were on the other side of the table." With her hands, she made the shape of the tables in the air, pointing at the imagined diagram to place him in it. "You had a bit of, um – I'm not sure what's in pencils these days, but that on your cheek. The kids must have been stressing you out at some point because you tend to run a hand over your face when that happens. But you didn't look stressed then. You have this very rigid posture usually. It's not a bad thing. Just military posture, I think. But um, you'd relaxed a bit. Not totally. I mean, you were in a class full of kids so who knows what could happen at any second, but I could tell you were having a good time."

He found himself being pulled into her story or memory despite himself. If she had made up this event, however, she was getting lost in it herself as well. He watched her guard slipping, but instead of thinking about how he could use the situation to his advantage, he was following a spark of something inside him that wanted to hear more, a feeling of curiosity he had first experienced when she asked him to search for a happy memory.

"There were maybe thirty kids in total. They had sketchpads, pencils. Wooden tables, the polished kind of wood, and the light kind. But the kids had plastic chairs. The room had yellow walls, windows on one side. Off-white tiled floor."

The room in her description slowly came into focus, constructed by her words. He could see the tables, the walls, the floor, and kids in the seats. But he could not picture any faces nor any details Ms. Stroud did not give him. It was like he was reading a descriptive paragraph during a briefing.

"There was a huge pad of paper on an easel in front of the class. You had drawn a row of buildings on it. Nothing too fancy. If I remember right, that was for teaching about perspective. A couple of the kids were talking, but most of them were focusing on their drawings. That girl must have had a question. You were pointing at the sketchpad and saying something to her. She was eleven or twelve maybe. She looked pretty serious, but you must have made a joke because you had this grin."

Ms. Stroud stopped there. She wasn't in the room with him, but lost to the one moment she had captured. And he was inexplicably there with her, trying to imagine himself making a joke. He felt as though she had described to him an image within a larger image. He thought he had understood the larger image, but its meaning might change if he saw the smaller one. Only he couldn't see it.

Yet again, he was confused. He didn't understand why she had chosen this particular made-up memory, or real memory, to share. This was not an imagining of them together, something that would paint her in a trustworthy and loving light. He couldn't figure the point of trying for a romance angle, only to drop the tactic almost immediately. She must have something up her sleeve, but he didn't have a clue what it could be, and facing an enemy on uncertain footing was never a good place to be.

"Anyway," said Ms. Stroud, rousing from her thoughts. She pulled his shield close once more. "That's the happy memory I picked. I know it's super random, but I thought it would be good to have a lot of detail. So maybe if you picture it and keep thinking about it, it'd come back to you. Try, okay? The memory's yours now."

If she wanted him to remember the image, he thought he should do the opposite. However, he had a feeling that it would stick with him.

"Would you like me to share another one?" she offered.

His instinct told him to keep quiet. Or he could decline and ask her to leave. Especially since – and this made him wary – the experience had been so different from anything he could remember. But that spark of curiosity lingered.

"You don't have to speak. You can just nod. Or blink once for yes, twice for no."

He forced himself to resist. The drugs were clouding his judgment. He couldn't give her an inch until he figured out what she wanted. He turned his head so he was facing the ceiling, ignoring the warning tingle that came from turning a blind eye on an adversary.

Ms. Stroud stilled in her chair. He couldn't hear a creak or a shuffle or a sigh or a breath. He almost looked back, but kept himself in check.

"Fine." Her voice had grown quiet, but not weak. "But even if you don't want me to, I'm doing it."

She was not bluffing.

In the empty canvas of the silent room, she created memory after memory with her words. Some of them were romantic, others were not. Some she stood witness to, other she was a part of. There seemed to be no pattern to her choices, only that she could call up specific details.

He listened because he had no choice. Nothing Ms. Stroud said brought back memories or made any kind of new feeling well up inside him. But he didn't know what to make of her, and in not knowing and under a drug-induced haze, he gave up trying to figure out this strategy and waited for her tactics to change.

A doctor eventually interrupted Ms. Stroud in the middle of a describing an obstacle in an underground maze he had supposedly taken her to. "There is an ambulance waiting to transport Captain Rogers to Yale-New Haven Hospital."

An ambulance might be a mistake for them, but for him it was an opportunity. He would be in tight quarters, so if he could get free, he could overpower any nurse that accompanied him.

Three nurses entered behind the doctor, and Thor came with them. He held his hammer in a massive fist, ready for use.

Ms. Stroud got up from her chair. "Are you going too or…?"

With a nod from Thor, the odds of an escape dropped. He should have known that they would not make it easy.

"Okay." Ms. Stroud smiled at him. "Keep thinking about those memories. I'll come visit really soon. And, I love you." But despite her professed love, she backed away at a nervous speed when the nurses wheeled his bed past her.

He was loaded into the back of an ambulance, and Thor squeezed in on one side of him. No one else joined them. He considered whether Thor might hit him lethally with his hammer if he lunged up, but decided that, based on the first hit, Thor would simply knock him out at the first sign of a struggle. He needed to wait for a better opportunity.

The images rose up as the ambulance drove them away. They were his memories now, as Ms. Stroud had said, because he could recall the details of each like pictures in his mind. He willed them away, but they wouldn't leave him. He had let Ms. Stroud get in his head. He would have to come up with a way to remove himself before she could get any further.

His eyes had nearly shut, and he struggled to keep them open. He felt tired, and the drugs were not helping, but he didn't believe it safe enough to sleep. Beside him, Thor shifted and moved his legs, which bumped against the gurney his was strapped to.

And a thought occurred to him then. Just as he was fighting to keep awake, Thor couldn't avoid sleep forever. If anyone else was left to guard him, he would get his chance.


	16. A Small Dose Of Reality

Becca felt around the bottom of her purse for her keys. How had she accumulated so much stuff? She had barely used her purse in months. But then, neither had she cleaned it out in months. Napkins, no. Pen, no. Steve's medication, no. What even was that? She lifted out a small bottle of hand sanitizer, which she didn't remember buying. In any case, the bottle was not keys. She dropped it back into her purse and continued rummaging. Her fingertips brushed jagged metal. There. She pulled out her keys and waved them at Agent Hill, who watched her from an idling car. She picked out the key for her apartment building, already imaging the long shower she was going to take before curling up in her own bed.

After Steve had been wheeled out of the hospital, Becca had gone back to chat with Sam and Natasha until a cop had come to collect her. He had driven her to the airport where a private plane waited to take her back to New York. He had insisted that she hand over Steve's shield before leaving. She had almost refused, hugging it protectively to her chest, but realizing she was being ridiculous and obviously Steve would get his shield back when he was himself again, she reluctantly turned it over.

Agent Hill had been on the plane, but Becca hadn't talked to her much, falling asleep minutes after takeoff. They had spoken on the car ride to her apartment. A trustworthy former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, one who she sort of remembered meeting after the invasion, had been stationed inside her apartment building. She was glad Agent Hill had told her or she would have definitely freaked out at seeing the vaguely familiar face of Agent Finch walking past her on the stairs with a basket of laundry. Of course, that there was enough concern for someone to make the decision that she still needed protection didn't seem much better than coming face-to-face with a Hydra agent.

She unlocked the door of her apartment and called, "Ally?"

Ally wasn't home. Becca peeked into her friend's bedroom just in case, but it was empty. She checked the time and decided Ally was at work. She dropped off her bag and purse in her room and turned on the air conditioning because the apartment was sweltering in the July heat. She took her shower, which felt amazing. Her towel had to be shaken several times to get the dust out. The whole bathroom was getting kind of dusty. Plenty of time to clean it later. Back in her bedroom, she returned a text from Sam to let him know she'd make it back safe before changing for bed.

Becca fell asleep with ease and didn't wake up until mid-afternoon the following day. She was starving, but a quick look in the fridge told her Ally hadn't gone food shopping in a while. She tossed some rotten fruit, expired yogurt, and funky smelling takeout into the garbage, and settled for a bowl of dry cereal and a glass of cranberry juice.

Munching on Rice Krispies, she surveyed the kitchen with contentment, happy to finally be home. Weird that there were no dishes on the drying rack, though. She got up from the table and checked the dishwasher. Empty.

Food churned in her stomach. She ran to Ally's bedroom. The bed hadn't been slept in. From that alone, Ally might have been staying with her boyfriend for a few days. But Ally was usually a total slob when it came to her bedroom. She never made the bed. The floor had a perpetual carpet of dirty laundry. The surface of her desk had never seen the light of day. Becca had made a habit of checking the trashcan every other week or it would be overflowing.

Once Becca had confronted Ally about the mess because mice had moved into their kitchen and she got nervous that they'd move into her friend's room. Ally had crossed her arms and said, "When I was a kid, I had to clean my room top to bottom every day. _Every day_. Vacuuming, dusting, all if it. I swore when I got my own place, I'd never clean my bedroom again." Becca had rolled her eyes at the childish stubbornness, but as long as Ally pitched in with cleaning the rest of the apartment, she didn't care.

Becca didn't know how she had missed it yesterday afternoon – side effect of being tired probably – but Ally's room was clean. Not spotless, but the clothes on the floor had been picked up. A small pile rested in the laundry basket, a pair of leggings draped over the edge from being tossed. The bedcovers had been pulled up over the pillow instead of lying however they'd fallen when Ally tossed them off in the morning. Whole patches of her desk were clear.

The dust. The empty kitchen. The clean bedroom. Where had Ally gone?

Becca sprinted into her bedroom and snatched up her tablet from the bedside table. Her breath came in heavy pants. Her hands shook, the tips of her fingers tingling. She tried to remember when she had talked to Ally last. A little over a week ago, before she'd left for Dr. Banner's house. Oh god, something bad had happened to Ally. She could feel it. And if something bad had happened to Ally, she wasn't safe here.

She sent Ally a text, _"Where are you?"_ and threw the tablet on her bed so she could gather what little she had unpacked from her bag. Agent Finch had moved into the apartment next door. She would go knock on her door and explain what had happened.

A small icon glowed in the tablet frame. Becca poked it.

" _At work. Why?"_

It was a trick. Something had to be wrong. Becca fought for breath. _"Why is your room clean?"_ she typed.

A second passed in an eternity. The person on the other end was coming up with a response. They had gotten Ally. This was all her fault. Her legs wobbled.

" _Been staying with Danny. Are you okay?"_

Why would Ally's room be clean because she was staying with her boyfriend? She hadn't cleaned it before when she stayed with him. Becca hit the icon to call Ally. The phone rang and rang. She was on the floor and not really sure how she'd gotten there. Air barely reached her lungs, each breath like sucking in through a straw. Her chest felt like it was collapsing, like she was being smothered again. She knew in some part of her brain that she needed to go, but panic froze her in place.

" _Hi! You've reached Ally Kochi. Leave your name and number, and I'll give you a call back when I can."_

Becca tried to speak but she couldn't get anything out. She was having a panic attack. It was a terrible time to have one, but the more she attempted to fight, the more afraid and pathetic she felt. She curled into a ball, tears streaming down her face as she struggled to breathe, terrified that that the next breath wouldn't pass her lips. The tablet beeped, letting her know that she'd reached the voicemail allotment length.

Something bad had happened to Ally. It was her fault. She couldn't breathe. Natasha had her arm broken. So many people were dead. All those Hydra soldiers. The agents who had tried to protect her and Mr. Otsuka, the hotel owner. The people in the hospital Hydra attacked. They'd all had friends, families. She couldn't breathe. She had shot Steve, just like she had shot Agent McGuffy. So much blood. Blood splattered on the car window. Blood flecked on her hands. Blood streaming down her neck. Blood smeared on Steve's shield. She couldn't breathe. Steve had tried to kill her. She had almost died. She couldn't breathe. She was going to die.

The tablet screen glowed. Ally was calling, or whoever had Ally's phone. Becca couldn't reach out to answer at first. The tablet went dark, but immediately glowed again. And again. She jabbed out a hand and picked up the call.

" _Becca? Becca, are you there?_ " Ally's voice sharp with worry.

"A-ally?" Becca gasped.

" _What is it? What's wrong?"_ When Becca did nothing but hiccup in short sobs, Ally's voice rose. _"Are you hurt? Did something happen? Is it Steve?"_

"Are you r-really at work? A-are you really o-okay?"

" _Yes and yes. What –"_

Becca couldn't believe it. She'd been so sure Ally was in trouble. Hydra could have gotten to her. "No one's m-m-making you say this?"

" _What? No."_

She was still suspicious. Hydra had a lot of advanced technology. They must be able to mimic someone's voice. "W-where'd we go on our- our first spring break?"

" _Where are you? Are you at our –"_

"Where'd we go?!" Becca screamed.

" _Block Island! We went to Block Island."_ Ally had gone from sounding worried to sounding scared. _"Please tell me what's happening. Are you at our apartment?"_

"There was d-dust. Your room wa-was empty. I thought…"

But Ally had been staying with her boyfriend a lot, even before Becca had left. She could have packed up her clothes, started moving into Danny's place. And here she was screaming at Ally like a crazy person. Her face heated in embarrassment. A couple of months hiding out from Hydra and she had turned looney tunes.

" _Don't move,"_ Ally instructed. _"I'll be there soon."_

"No, it's okay. I-I'm fine."

" _Twenty minutes. Twenty-five tops."_

"No. Stay at – at work. S-sorry I bothered you. Bye."

Becca hung up so Ally couldn't protest. She was such an idiot. If only she had thought for five seconds before freaking Ally out. Ally must hate having her as a friend. She was nothing but trouble and drama. Everyone must hate having her around. They all must hate _her_. Thinking about that much hidden resentment cycled her into another panic attack, which seemed to last forever.

Finally, she picked herself up off the floor and washed her face in the sink. Her cheeks and neck had turned a blotchy pink, making the scars stand out bright white. Her hair had frizzed up in the humidity forming a wild mane around her head. She looked just how she felt, like a pathetic train wreck.

Becca went back to her room. Part of her wanted to burrow under the blankets in a tiny ball, but if she wallowed, she might have another panic attack. She needed to occupy herself with something. Cleaning the apartment, she could do that.

Their vacuum cleaner sat in her closet, looking untouched, as Becca had suspected it would be. She plugged it in and set about vacuuming her floor. Cleaning had never been a chore she particularly enjoyed. Apparently some people found it relaxing. However, she was a messy person. Not nearly as bad as Ally, but she would put off cleaning until things started looking gross and then exert minimum effort and call it good. But today, she found the steady back and forth of the vacuum soothing and the shine of varnished wood revealed beneath the layer of dust inexplicably made her feel better.

Then, Becca noticed the stack of mail on her desk. She shut the vacuum cleaner off and picked up the top letter from the stack. The envelope was plain, but the sender's address had fancy green font with a cross logo. It was from the hospital she had been taken to after Hydra had kidnapped her. She turned the envelope over and her heart sank. Stamped in red across the back was one word: "OVERDUE." She opened the envelope and looked over the charges. Her insurance had footed some of the bill, but the remainder was still pricey, especially with the late fees. And either the price of an ambulance had gone up or her insurance wasn't covering as much.

From a spot on the center of her bed, she sorted through the mail, picking out bills and laying the papers open on her bed. She opened her e-mail too, sorting through those bills, which had gone ignored. There were bills for her credit cards with huge late fees. There were bills for her phone, cable TV – which was in her name; Ally took the internet bill – and Netflix account, all of which had been cancelled for nonpayment. Devika had sent several emails for her ongoing tab with the assurance that there was no rush on getting paid, a good thing as her fee made Becca gasp out loud. And she owed Ally for covering rent and utilities for about two and a half months.

Her credit was destroyed, and if she could only pay about two-thirds of her bills before she would officially be bankrupt. Her heart had sunken past her stomach and fallen down to somewhere near the Earth's core. Becca put her head in her hands. She was so fucked. Why hadn't she thought to cancel everything or transfer money over to her parents and ask them to pay off whatever needed paying off? She had been so focused on Steve, acting like normal life had stopped because she had important superhero stuff to deal with. But the world had moved on without her.

Becca called up one of the credit card companies first to settle her bill, and any hope for a tiny break due to the shitstorm that had been her life these past months was quickly squashed. They wanted her to pay up. End of story. So what could she do? She prioritized the bills and paid. It would take time for all the payments to process, but she imagined her bank account dwindling, the numbers running down like the countdown to a bomb. Hit zero and then a giant flash of "BANKRUPT!"

And she was currently unemployed, which was the icing on the cake. Copywriting jobs were hard to come by. It had taken her ten months after college to finally land one, even with internship experience. In the meanwhile she had turned her part-time job as an administrative assistant for a travel agency into a full-time job and worked evenings at the Disney superstore in Times Square. Maybe one of those places would hire her back while she looked for a copywriting job. Once she finished with the bills, she'd have to update her resume, put together a portfolio, and look at job listings. Great.

When the front door opened, Becca stiffened.

"Becca?"

She relaxed, as much as she could when her life had gone even more to hell. She hadn't really expected Ally to stay at work. "In here."

Ally didn't stop to take off her suit jacket or her purse or anything. She came right in and tossed her briefcase on the floor. The usual good humor in her face had been replaced with concern. She hugged Becca tight, and Becca hugged her back.

"What's going on?" Ally asked.

"I was just having a moment. I'm sorry I freaked out," Becca apologized.

"It's okay. It's fine."

"It looked like you hadn't been living here in a while, and I panicked. It was stupid."

"It wasn't stupid." Ally pulled back and made to sit, so Becca swept the bills away from that part of the mattress. "I haven't really been here much. After finding out S.H.I.E.L.D. was listening in on everything, I couldn't – Not that it's your fault."

Becca grimaced. Maybe having their apartment tapped wasn't totally her fault, but Ally's life wouldn't have been invaded if they were living in separate places. And she was ashamed of not having thought too hard about how the recordings might affect people beyond herself and Steve. Actually, she had pretty much forgotten about that fiasco in the wake of everything afterwards.

"This place isn't still being tapped is it?" she asked.

Ally shrugged. "The FBI came and they said they took everything away, but it still feels creepy." She prodded the messy pile of bills. "What're these?"

"Oh, just stuff." Becca shoved the bills under her tablet. "By the way, I'm gonna have to owe you on apartment money for a while. Is that okay?"

Ally glanced at the bills with a look that told Becca she'd figured out what they were. "Yeah. Don't worry about it." She touched Becca's knee and squeezed lightly. "Don't get mad at me for asking this. Do you need to borrow some money?"

The only reason Becca felt she could go on owing Ally money until she was back on her feet – apart from not having anything to give her – was that Ally's family was fairly well off. Her dad was one of those rare cases of the American Dream actually coming true. Off the boat from one of Japan's smallest islands, he had built a land development company from the ground up, married an American woman, and bought a house with a white picket fence in one of New York's suburbs. Ally worked for him, and she wasn't lazy or spoiled because of it, but she did have a trust fund to fall back on.

Even so, Becca balked at borrowing money from her. She already owed Ally a couple thousand for rent. "No thanks. Not right now. I planned on working on my resume. I'll find something. I'm not gonna be picky."

"Why don't you send me your resume?" Ally suggested. "I'll forward it to my father, and I'm sure if he sends it to HR, they'll find you something."

"You don't have to do that. I mean, I don't want your dad having HR come up with some random new job."

Ally snorted. She took her hand off Becca's knee, the corners of her mouth tightening in anger. "Would you stop it? I thought we were past this 'I don't need your help' crap." She pointed an accusatory finger at the floor. "The last time you waited to ask for my help I found you right there almost dead. Do _not_ do this to me again."

Becca lowered her head, unable to meet Ally's eyes. Beyond an apology, they had never talked about the time when Ally had found her passed out from an overdose. She had talked to her NA sponsor about it, a private counselor, and mentioned it once at a group meeting she rarely attended, but the thought of saying anything to Ally had filled her with a deep sense of shame. It must have be terrifying for Ally to find her best friend lying unresponsive on the ground next to puddles of vomit, nearly empty pill bottles sitting nearby.

"I'll send you my resume," Becca mumbled.

Ally huffed. "Good. Was that so hard?"

Yes, was what Becca didn't say. She sniffed and looked up at Ally. "I'm sorry that you had to find me that way. And that I didn't ask for help sooner. And that I'm an addict. And that S.H.I.E.L.D. tapped our apartment. And that I disappeared for two months. And that I can't pay you. I'm a terrible friend. I know you're sick of me."

The irritation melted from Ally's expression. "Oh sweetheart, I'm not sick of you." She wrapped her arms around Becca, who buried her face into Ally's shoulder. "It's a roller coaster with you sometimes, but I don't mind. Whenever I need a conversation starter, I can lead with 'My best friend's Miss America.' So, worth it."

Thank god Ally wasn't upset with her. Becca sighed, her relief coming out as mock-indignity. "Tch, wow. I've been reduced to a conversation starter. I feel so loved."

Ally grinned. "You should. Now, how about we have a movie marathon and order pizza? My treat."

And for the rest of the afternoon, Becca let herself forget about all the shit she'd been through and the responsibilities weighing her down. She picked out all of her favorite movies, and Ally ordered pizza and cheesy garlic bread sticks from their favorite pizza place and ran out to get a bottle of Jack Daniels to go with the food. They vegged out on the couch, stuffing their faces while listening to the amazing soundtrack of _Star Wars_ and sighing over the handsome Gary Cooper in _Meet John Doe._ It was like being an undergrad again, existing on the verge of dealing with the real world, knowing you had to live it up before dealing with all trials of adulthood.

The safe bubble they'd created popped when Ally suggested they go out to Black Ice for ice cream shakes. They descended in the elevator, giggling over a joke in one of the movies – it had never seemed as funny before, but they were both a little tipsy – and Becca didn't even notice the reporters until she pushed open the front door.

Cameras flashed, startling her so badly that she stumbled back a step, blinking in confusion.

"Miss Stroud, is it true that Captain America has been caught by police?!" "It is really Steve Rogers?!" "Did you know it was him?!" "Miss Stroud!""Miss Stroud!" "Miss America!" "Miss Stroud!"

Realizing what was happening, Becca backed up and shut the door. It had only been a matter of time before reporters turned up. Steve getting caught would be front page news, and she had lied to the press about the man in the Captain America suit really being him. She burped, feeling like she might puke.

Ally glared out at the reporters. "Want me to tell them to fuck off?"

"No. They won't leave. And I'm not that hungry anymore anyways."

Becca turned around and noticed Agent Finch pretending to sort through her mailbox behind them. She hadn't even heard Agent Finch come down. Were all S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel taught to be so quiet on their feet? Well, it made sense since they were supposed to be secret agents, but how did one teach stealth? She imagined all the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she knew prowling around the room with cats leading the way. The image did not cheer her up. Much.

"So they did find Steve then?" Ally asked as they made their way up, using the stairs to avoid having to potentially wait at the elevator while reporters barged into the entryway and snapped pictures. "I'd assumed since you were home and I'd heard on the news, but I didn't wanna ask."

"Yeah. He's at a hospital down in Connecticut." Which Becca had no idea how she was going to get to without money. She had planned on visiting tomorrow, but that seemed unlikely to happen now.

"Is he okay?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "He's alive, but he doesn't remember anything and Thor hit him on the head."

"Oh my god."

"And I shot him."

" _Oh my god_." Ally's eyes were as wide as Becca had ever seen them. "What the hell happened?"

"He showed up at the house and tried to kill me. Thor pulled him off, and I was afraid he'd kill Steve, so I shot Steve to stop him fighting. And then Thor hit him." Relaying the events out loud sounded so strange. Her voice had stayed level and succinct, like her voicebox was purposely numbing her against the memories.

"That sounds awful," Ally gasped. Becca shrugged again, not wanting Ally to make a fuss over her. "So you're staying away from him for a while?"

Becca frowned. "Nooo. I just came here because – I don't know. Someone ordered a plane. Probably Tony. I don't know. I'm gonna go see him."

"Is that safe?"

Her skin prickled at the memory of Steve's hand clamped over her mouth and nose. "Course it's safe. They have him cuffed to a bed, and they'll have security and stuff. Thor's probably still with him."

Ally looked unconvinced. "But if he doesn't remember you and you get too close, are cuffs really gonna hold him?"

"He'll remember me."

"But you said –"

"I _said_ he doesn't remember anything now," Becca stressed. Why did everyone want to put this unnecessary wedge between her and Steve because of his memory loss? First her aunt, then the Avengers, then Ally. It was annoying how little people believed in him, and in her. "He'll get his memories back. I'll help him."

"Shouldn't you let the professionals do that? Just until he starts getting his memories back?"

"Who are the professionals on this? No one's worked with this Hydra mind-wipe stuff."

"But there must be doctors or therapists who work with memory loss," Ally protested. "I'm sure since he's Captain America he'll get the best doctors."

Becca shook her head. Her aunt hadn't understood, and neither did Ally. _She_ had gotten through to Steve before, like Steve had gotten through to Bucky. "And I'm sure doctors and therapists will help, but he needs me."

"Does he need you right now or do you need him to need you?"

"I'll tell you want I don't need," Becca snapped. "This." She hurried up the next few steps to put some space between her and Ally. Steve did need her. Ally would see that in the end. It would take hard work and time, but one day she was going to come home with a goodbye kiss from Steve still on her lips and the memory of him smiling at her and thanking her for not giving up on him.

Yes, Steve needed her. Because if he didn't… Becca had no idea what she would do.

* * *

On arrival at the city hospital, he was given anesthesia. He woke up wrapped in the haze of sedation with a doctor telling him that the surgery on his heel had gone well. He was wheeled around from room to room, barely conscious as doctors and nurses around him murmured words like "CAT scan" and "x-ray" and "head trauma" and "amnesia."

By the time his concentration began to sharpen, he had been left in a hospital room with Thor watching over him. Thor didn't appear tired, and he assumed Thor had gotten sleep during the surgery, or perhaps aliens needed less sleep than humans. Unlike before, Thor made no attempt to speak with him, watching with what might have been boredom if his hand didn't tighten on his hammer whenever he moved on the bed. Only medical personnel roused any further reaction, Thor giving them all friendly smiles that left more than one of the nurses blushing and acting flustered.

Him, on the other hand, they regarded with wary interest. Thor loomed at the end of his bed whenever someone approached, but his concern was unnecessary. He would not harm a civilian when it didn't serve to further his mission.

A doctor informed him that he was being transferred from the hospital to "somewhere more private." This transfer didn't afford any more opportunities to end his life than the previous trip had, though they travelled in a helicopter instead of an ambulance. Thor sat by his side the entire time, a silent guard.

As the flight went on, he found himself thinking of the moments Ms. Stroud had shared with him. Whether real or made up, as he believed, he couldn't quite get them out of his head. They hung there like a gallery for his perusal and with nothing else to do, his mind flicked from one to the other, examining them from all angles. He looked for some kind of flaw to prove they were false, but he was unable to find any.

The helicopter landed in front of building made of what looked like concrete painted off-white. It was one story. He estimated the building to be roughly 84 feet by 120 feet at a glance. He saw no windows and only one door with guards on either side. He knew a POW facility when he saw one. If they took him inside, his mission was going to become a lot harder to complete. He assessed the guards and spotted the guns on their belts. If he went for them, they might shoot him, and if they missed, he would have their guns.

He braced himself, readying for the pain of putting weight on his heel. With all his strength, he pulled against his restraints. They snapped with a tearing, rending sound of fabric and metal. He was on his feet. He took a wobbling step and felt as though a tent spike had been shoved through his heel into his right foot. He took another step, gritting his teeth and fighting to keep his balance on the cast.

Thor grabbed him by the throat. With one hand, Thor lifted him up and slammed him none too gently back onto the gurney. Thor placed the hammer on top of his chest. The hammer's weight was no more than a gentle pressure, but when he tried to move it did not budge an inch. His fingers curled into fists while he seethed, furious that his best chance of escape to be crushed.

He grew very accustomed to the weight of that hammer, as it sat on his chest almost continuously, even when Thor was not in the room with him. When a doctor wanted to move him or he needed to use a bedpan Thor would hold up a hand, the hammer flying to him as easily as if it were made of the air itself.

A doctor brought food, soup in a plastic bowl with no utensils. She undid the restraints on one of his arms, tense and not looking him in the eye. She backed away, and Thor lifted his hand to reclaim his hammer.

He picked up the bowl and examined it as he took a sip of the broth, feeling the texture, determining its strength. He had to be quick, even more so than he had been outside. Soup spilled across his lap, burning his skin as he jammed the bowl between the metal frame of the mattress and the armrest. The bowl snapped in two as he applied pressure, and as he had hoped, the edges were jagged and sharp.

Thor stopped him just short of driving the sharp edge into his own neck. A few of his finger bones popped and snapped as Thor wrenched the bowl from his hand, and he fell back against the mattress with a grunt as the hammer landed smack against his chest, pinning him in place. Thor held his arm down for the doctor to restrain, her face white and her hands shaking.

A different doctor came in to apply salve to the burns on his thighs – which barely stung as the soup had not been very hot – and put his broken fingers in splints. He stared at the ceiling the whole time, frustrated with himself for not being faster.

The doctor did not return for at least a half hour, and he imagined a conference being held, decisions having to be made about what to do with him next.

They hooked up wires to his head, a procedure he was familiar with from the tests Dr. Henson had done, except instead of her mental exercises of memorizing words and patterns, the doctor showed him pictures and asked if they brought back any memories. The doctor questioned him about being in World War Two and living in New York. They asked if he remembered people like Sarah Rogers and James Barnes. None of the pictures looked familiar, and the life the doctor painted sounded like that of someone else.

"How about this one?"

The doctor, who had introduced himself as Dr. Alexander Delgado, pulled up another picture on the monitor. Ms. Stroud smiled out at him. Not the strained smile she had given him when saying goodbye or the small smile that had formed when feeding him stories. It was the beaming, show all her teeth smile he had seen in one or two of the images when he'd been briefed on his target.

A remark crept out before he could bite it back. "I don't think I'd be much used to anyone if I couldn't remember someone I saw yesterday."

Dr. Delgado perked up at getting a response. "Do you remember her from before yesterday?"

He peered at the picture. He knew this image. Ms. Stroud had described it to him. She had said he kept it on the mantelpiece next to his parents' wedding photo. She had stated he'd taken it himself, that they had been in Central Park, lounging on the grass and enjoying the sun. He had, so she claimed, been baffled as to why everyone wanted to view the world through a camera like it made everything more beautiful somehow and taken a bunch of pictures to prove that the camera did not, in fact, make everything more beautiful. Hence her amusement that he had chosen that particular picture to frame.

"Her name is Becca Stroud."

He could remember every detail as Ms. Stroud had described it. The cloudless sky. The faint breeze, cool but not cold. The college-aged women stretched out closest to them, her pink flowery dress a contrast to the book about serial killers she was reading. The screaming of school kids out on a field trip playing a game on a neighboring stretch of lawn. Her hand placed lightly above his knee, her head coming to rest on his shoulder causing him to stop his tangent.

"You can really wind yourself up sometimes," she had said, her voice both teasing and affectionate. She had leaned up, smelling of sunblock. "It's cute." Her lips had been warm against his cheek.

He felt like Thor had hit him in the head with his hammer once more, and the blow sent vibrations echoing through his skull. He could hear everything Ms. Stroud had said like a narration playing over the picture. She hadn't included those words in her story or mentioned kissing his cheek. The focus of the moment had been him taking her picture, not what came afterwards. He figured that he must be imagining things. The doctors had been giving him drugs. Thor had hit him in the head. He hadn't eaten in almost a day.

And yet, his memory of Ms. Stroud voicing the story behind the picture blurred into her resting her head on his shoulder. That part was more vibrant where her voice was black and white print. He remembered the feel of her gentle touch with the same clarity that he remembered her nails biting into his hand as she struggled for air. He hadn't been able to look her in the eyes. Why not?

"You're in a relationship with her."

His gaze jerked from the picture to Dr. Delgado, but the doctor was staring at the monitor hooked up to his head and scribbling intently on a pad of paper. He came back to himself and his surroundings. This was a trick of the mind, or else a piece of a life he'd left behind for a greater purpose.

"No, sir. I'm not. She doesn't mean a thing to me," he stated, and refused to look at any more of the pictures.

Eventually, Dr. Delgado gave up. He and another doctor removed the equipment with the pronouncement that they'd try again tomorrow, which left him in the room with Thor.

He could sense the weight of Thor's gaze, and met it instinctually. Thor appeared troubled, the lines of his face drawn. He figured Thor had to be concerned that he hadn't fallen for any of the bait that had been laid, which made him more determined than ever to keep his eyes ahead and his trap shut and not give any sign of a response.

But Thor broke his newly bolstered guard when he spoke. "Lady Stroud would be most upset to hear you speak that way. You would do well to think more kindly of her. You owe her much."

He shook his head. He owed her a busted heel and his capture, although he didn't resent her for either. They were merely on opposite sides.

"To shake your head is an insult." Thor moved closer to his bed, and the hammer on his chest seemed to shift as though he nearly called it to his hand. "Becca has a stout heart, and it burns brightly for you. But the human heart is a fleeting thing, and I would not have you waste her fire, though you have done little that I have seen thus far to deserve it."

He turned his head from Thor, but not out of defiance. Something hot was welling up inside him. The feeling was not pain, though it made the back of his neck itch and his cheeks flush. It gave him the sense of being about one inch tall. He didn't know the feeling, but he didn't like it. And he wished for the sharp piece of ceramic no longer just because ending his life was his last mission, but because it seemed right. It seemed like penance.


	17. These Wounds Run Deep

Not long after Dr. Delgado had left him with a confusing and potentially false memory of Ms. Stroud, two F.B.I. agents arrived. They requested Thor leave the room before proceeding to ask questions about where he'd been, why he'd assassinated his targets, and who was behind the assassinations. He had been expecting an interrogation. At first he was good about keeping quiet, but it irked him to hear them call Hydra "terrorists." They kept using that word over and over, until rage bubbled up and he snapped at them. He was not a terrorist, he explained, and everything he had done had been to make the world better.

He regretted the outburst immediately and clamped his mouth shut. His emotions were coming back in fits and bursts. Dr. Henson had been right. Emotions, memories, they clouded his judgment and made him act stupid.

In his silence, the agents became increasingly less polite, persisting in their interrogation until they were interrupted by a woman who announced herself as Maggie Rosenthal, his lawyer. She planted herself at his bedside, advising him not to answer every other question until she chased the agents off by insisting he needed rest. Once they were alone, she informed him that the state had appointed her in absence of his previous lawyer – she said "Hydra" with a look of distaste that made him clench his jaw.

"I won't sugar coat things. You're looking at a long list of charges," Mrs. Rosenthal informed him. She nudged her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a knuckle as she looked over her papers. "You're being charged with two counts of murder in the first degree, three counts of intent to commit murder, four counts of conspiracy to commit murder, seven counts of involuntary manslaughter, two counts of aggravated assault, three counts of disturbing the peace, and a Mr. Desjardin is suing you for psychological trauma inflicted on his son, who was allegedly forced to film the death of Mr. Brock."

She lowered the papers. "But the good news is we might be able to get a plea deal, show you're getting therapy and make a public apology. If we do go to court, as long as we can get a jury to believe that you were coerced into doing those things after having your memories robbed, I think we can get a not guilty plea on all accounts. This is an unprecedented situation of course, but not dissimilar to a verdict of not guilty by reason of temporary insanity."

He stared at this woman, who had breezed in like a whirlwind to make promises he didn't want. "I'm not insane."

He was a soldier. He had done what had to be done. That was war. A jury should not be able to find him guilty of murder unless he killed for the wrong reasons, but he knew following Dr. Henson's orders had been right.

"I didn't mean to imply that you were," Mrs. Rosenthal soothed. "Only that from a legal standpoint, your defense will be similar."

Nevertheless, if he did get convicted and sent to prison or even in traveling to a court room, he would have access to more opportunities to finish his mission. "I don't need a defense. I did those things."

Mrs. Rosenthal's breath stopped for a moment, caught in her chest. She looked him over with a calculating expression which ended with an understanding smile. "You need time. Think things over. It will take weeks before this case is even brought to a proper court, if it comes to that. In the meantime, I'll talk to the prosecution. See if we can't get this straightened out."

"I'm guilty. Tell them I said that."

Still smiling, Mrs. Rosenthal headed for the exit. "I'll see what I can do."

He was certain that meant she wouldn't be telling the prosecution anything. He tried to sit up, but the hammer held him in place. "I want to plead guilty."

The door shut with a definitive _click_ in place of a response. He slammed his upper torso back against the bed hard enough to make his teeth clatter and his vision blur as pain exploded in his head. Anger ebbed with the pain, resignation taking its place. He could not chase after Mrs. Rosenthal, but his chance to speak would come eventually.

He counted the days that past by the routine this place followed. Once he refused to eat – they tried to hand feed him after his attempt to kill himself with a soup bowl – doctors forced a feeding tube down through his nose that he assumed contained the necessary nutrients to keep him alive. He attempted to bite through it, gagging and coughing, so they sedated him during that time. One of the same doctors returned afterwards to do an examination which included checking his blood pressure, temperature, and other simple tests.

There was a break of what felt like several hours. Then, a group of four doctors and nurses exercised his body while Thor hovered close behind them with his hammer at the ready. Most of the exercises were all right, though he made no move to help the doctors. The exercises for the leg with his busted heel hurt quite a bit, so he gritted his teeth through those. Another short reprieve took place followed by a doctor bringing in a bedpan for his use followed by another break.

Next, they would hook his head up to wires as Dr. Delgado arrived – he realized by the second day that Dr. Delgado was a shrink – to talk to him. The doctor always started out by asking if there was anything he'd like to talk about, and when he didn't answer, Dr. Delgado assured him that his silence was okay and he was going to show him some pictures. A few of the pictures grew to be familiar, as they made regular appearances, but they would be mixed in amongst new pictures. The story Dr. Delgado fed him was the same Ms. Stroud had given him, about being born almost a century ago, joining the war effort, becoming Captain America, being lost to time.

It was an impossible story, and yet he found that snippets of related thoughts appeared in his head like memories. He looked at what was supposedly his parent's wedding photo and suddenly saw that picture sitting on a shelf as tired and worn as Sarah Rogers seemed as she gazed at the picture. The air smelled like boiled cabbage and rotting wood. She turned, seeming to catch him watching her, and quickly hid her troubles behind a smile. He looked at a picture of a WWII concentration camp and had a vision of a man walking through its gates, his frame gaunt, bones making his face sharp, but his hands were held up to the sky in wonder. The day had been warm, though the sun barely peeked through the clouds. The man's lips moved in quiet prayer as tears of joy streamed down his face. A little girl clung to his leg like she would never again let go. He looked at a picture of him talking to Ms. Stroud, who appeared to be in exercise gear, a number pinned to the back of her shirt, and saw her lifting a cup to her lips. He knew he had given her that cup. Beads of sweat dappled her face, her cheeks had turned red with exertion. She had been running.

Dr. Delgado could be messing with his head. His mind made up false memories to go along with the pictures. But what confused him were the feelings that over time accompanied the visions as he pondered them. A troubled feeling over Sarah Rogers' worried face. A sense of rightness tinged with a sinking feeling at the man looking into the sky. A feeling that rose and surged in his chest at Ms. Stroud pink-skinned and sweaty in her exercise uniform.

Sometimes nothing would come to him, but if two or three visions rose up, he discovered that Dr. Delgado would tell him that was enough for the day and they would try again tomorrow. The wires on his head must have been telling Dr. Delgado when he was having the visions.

What troubled him more than the pictures and their accompanying flashes of thought, were other thoughts that rose when he was alone. A machine pressed to his head as doctors surrounded him, including Dr. Henson. He remembered pain sharp enough to make him scream. He remembered his hands closing around a dog's neck. He remembered a fellow soldier convulsing on the floor, blood pouring from her nose. And these visions, more than the others, gave him bad feelings. Feelings that twisted in his guts and made the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and feelings that made him feel one inch tall, and feelings that made him want to close his eyes and never open them again.

After Dr. Delgado had gone, they force fed him a second time. His stomach had time to settle before a doctor came in to give him a sponge bath and change his hospital gown. He was offered the bedpan once more and finally, he was left alone until he eventually fell asleep.

He counted six days before the routine was interrupted.

Dr. Delgado came in early, before his daily exercises. "Steve, you have two visitors. Ms. Devika Majumadar, your publicist. And you already know Ms. Stroud. Would it be all right if they come in?"

He considered. He had no memory of Ms. Majumadar or having a press agent and didn't much care if she came in or not. Ms. Stroud was a different story. The idea of seeing her made a complicated mess of feelings writhe in his gut. He wanted to see her, and yet he didn't. He had questions to ask her, but he wasn't sure if he should trust her answers. Finally, he figured that he should at least let her in, take a head on look at the problem and see if anything cleared up. So he nodded.

"I'll send them in," Dr. Delgado said. He beckoned to Thor, who followed him out of the room with a warning glance over his shoulder. There was a camera up in the right hand corner, so he knew they would both be watching.

Ms. Majumadar entered alone a minute later. He surveyed her, picking out details. Clean-pressed suit that looked expensive. Easy smile, but her fingernails had been bitten down. He didn't sense any threat from her, and no memories came to him.

"Hi," she greeted coming to stand close to his bed. If he ripped through the restraints, he would be able to reach her. She must not be afraid of him to stand so close. Although, he thought she might be from tension that appeared suddenly in her posture. "I'm Devika. I'm not sure if you remember me, but I've been handling the publicity side of your life for the past year and a half."

He looked her over again, but got nothing. "Why are you here?"

She looked startled to be spoken to, and her smile stretched, but nerves had appeared behind the smile. "I just wanted to see how you were being treated." Her hand lifted to her ear, worrying her earring. "And assure you that I am still working to handle the press."

Her fingers squeezed the earring and her demeanor changed on a dime. She darted forward, the abrupt movement causing him to jerk away. Her hands fell on the restraints on his left arm, undoing clasps, pressing buttons to deactivate the magnetized ones, all while speaking quickly.

"Henson said to tell you to finish the mission and that your sacrifice and Becca's death will be the tipping point in the war." Ms. Majumadar pulled a small case from the inside of her sleeve. She opened it and showed him a thin rectangle of metal like a razor blade. She pressed the metal between his middle and pointer fingers so it would be hidden, and arraigned the restraints to look like they hadn't been tampered with. "I'm sorry. She said if I did this, I could finally leave. You changed my mind about Hydra. I'm done with them."

She leaned over him, but shook her head and muttered, "Shit. No time." She backed up to the same place she had stood before, arraigning a smile on her face. "So you work on getting better," Ms. Majumadar said at a normal volume, as though the last thirty seconds hadn't happened. "And don't worry. Everyone's on your side. Okay? So I'm going to let Becca have her turn. She's been very anxious to see you." Her smile drooped for a moment. "Goodbye."

He gaped after her, almost unbelieving. If not for the piece of metal warming between his fingers, he would have questioned whether the moment had happened at all. But Dr. Henson was a smart woman, and she had mentioned someone on the inside.

A chance to complete his mission had come earlier than anticipated. With a chance to also take out his target, no less. He had not been expecting another chance at that. He had thought the opportunity should make him feel more certain about everything. But when Ms. Stroud came in and he squeezed the piece of metal, he felt like he might be sick. And something else. These deep, hot feelings that came with a whispered voice telling him it would be better if everything were all over. That it was no less than he deserved.

* * *

Becca shifted the weight of the box from hand to hand. This place gave her the creeps. She had assumed Steve was being kept in a nice place where he could recuperate, like a fancy hospital or rehab or something. Not this big white cube without windows and intimidating guards stationed at the one exit. She half expected flickering lights and water-stained walls on the inside, but everything was impeccably clean, which was possibly creepier. At least the staff seemed friendly. And she supposed the extra security was warranted. Steve might have a really nice room. She would find out soon enough.

Steve's psychologist had contacted her three days ago. Dr. Delgado specialized in helping people who suffered from head trauma that resulted in memory loss. He had explained that Steve was exhibiting signs of recognizing her and requested that she visit. He also requested she bring a few of things that might stimulate Steve's memory.

Of course, Becca wanted to drop everything, put together a box, and go, but there were complications.

First, she had an interview with Ally's dad's company for an office assistant position, which she absolutely could not miss. She got the job, thankfully, but it was entry level. Not enough money for her to live on and pay off her debts, so she started applying to retail-type jobs she could work during evenings and weekends. Between working her new job, submitting applications for an additional job, and putting together a portfolio so she could search for an actual copywriting job, she was swamped.

Then there was the matter of getting together Steve's things. All she had at her apartment was a drawer of clothes and a pristine copy of _Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World_. She did think about bringing him the album filled with drawings he'd given her, but Dr. Delgado had said not to bring too much or it could be "overwhelming." Reluctant to bother Sam for anything else, she called him anyway to ask what had happened to all of Steve's stuff.

As it turned out, Sam had rented a storage locker for Steve after the police had gone through the boxes. Becca mentally added that to the tally of money owed and asked if he would mind picking up some things. They ended up spending almost two hours Skyping one night with Sam opening boxes and showing her the contents, while they debated over what Steve was most likely to remember.

In the back of her mind, she kept hearing Dr. Delgado tell her not to bring anything that could potentially be used as a weapon. She had asked, chills running up her spine, if he had tried to hurt anyone.

" _It's a risk I'd like to avoid,"_ Dr. Delgado had informed her over the phone. _"Ms. Stroud, have you ever noticed Steve exhibiting any kind of melancholy behavior? Perhaps withdrawing from you or displaying some kind of mood swings?_ "

Becca immediately thought of one instance, what seemed forever ago, when she woke up in the morning and Steve had been gazing off with a sad look on his face, but he wouldn't tell her what was wrong. It wasn't the only time, just what came to her first. Normally, she'd be hesitant to share Steve's personal life with anyone, but this was his psychologist and he must have a good reason for asking.

"Yes. He sometimes has nightmares, too," she confessed. "I always thought he might have developed some kind of PTSD from the war. I talked to him about it once, and he was opening up a little bit, but it's not something thar comes easy to him. I didn't want to push him too hard."

" _What about reckless behavior?"_

"Well, does being a superhero count?"

Dr. Delgado laughed lightly. _"Yes, but apart from that?"_

"Um…" Becca had to really think. "He told me once he was going to try jumping out of a helicopter without his parachute. And he drives his motorcycle pretty fast sometimes, but I might have encouraged that." Suddenly, she was curious. "What's this got to do with his memory?"

There was a pause. _"This is not so much about his memory. Steve has attempted to harm himself, and I am trying to figure out whether he was already in a frame of mind that could create that impulse or whether this is a result of head trauma or whether something was done to him during his time with Hydra."_

Becca sat there, staring down at the tablet, the glow of the screen blurring and twisting as tears sprung to her eyes. "Steve tried to kill himself?" she asked, her voice strangled. Oh god. Had Hydra told him to do that? There was that thing on his eye that would have burned through his head. Or was he really hurting so much that he couldn't live with himself? He had said once…

"He told me – he told me, like, a year ago that when he went down into the ice there was a part of him that wanted everything to be over. And that he still felt that way sometimes."

But she had assumed that the worst was behind him. Obviously, bad feelings didn't up and disappear. She expected him be sad and have painful memories, but she thought if he kept busy enough and she loved him and made him happy enough, he wouldn't hurt quite that much anymore.

Dr. Delgado calmly stated, _"Okay. Steve has been through some very serious trauma in his life, and combined with the most recent trauma, he's in a fragile place right now. You telling me this has been very helpful, and I'm going to work with Steve to make sure he gets to a better place. He's safe here."_

"Um…" Becca picked up a pillow and held in to her chest, fighting to keep her voice together as tears fell. "Should I come right now? I can figure out something." She'd call her parents. If she explained, one of them would definitely come get her.

" _I think it'd be best if you wait at least a day. Gather those items for Steve. Are you living with someone currently?"_

"My friend Ally."

" _Is she a close friend?"_

"Yeah." Becca sniffed, wiping her nose on her wrist. "Yeah, she's my best friend."

" _Is she someone you feel comfortable talking to about how you're feeling?"_

"Um." She had already put so much on Ally. Was she really going to dump even more? "I don't know. Maybe."

" _I think it would be a good idea,"_ Dr. Delgado insisted gently. _"But if you're not comfortable with that or speaking to someone else you know, I would like to refer you to a colleague of mine. You live in the New York area, correct?"_

"Yeah."

" _Okay. Her name is Dr. Andrea Rice. She works primarily with soldiers and their families."_

Dr. Delgado gave her the information and said to tell the receptionist that he was referring her. He also assured her that she could call him back any time and if he didn't answer right away, he would get back to her as soon as possible.

After she'd hung up, Becca crawled under her covers and tucked herself into a tiny ball to cry. She should have insisted that Steve go see a therapist. She should have insisted he open up more before Hydra came along and pulled those feelings out of him. Stupid, stupid. He had been so good about helping her with her addiction, and she hadn't done nearly enough for him.

That was why she called Sam about Steve's things instead of taking the long way around. The information for Dr. Rice, Becca set aside. She didn't have the money to pay for therapy and she didn't have the time either.

Sam offered to pick her up on Saturday morning after an interview at a local drugstore and drive her back down to Virginia where Steve was being kept. She initially accepted, but on Friday, Devika called up and asked if Becca would like to drive down with her. So instead, she hitched a ride with Devika and they met up with Sam halfway to pick up the box of Steve's things.

A guard led them through security, where they had to leave their purses and any electronics. Her box was searched, but allowed through. The guard took them down a creepy, sterile corridor until they met up with Dr. Delgado. He looked older than Becca had expected from his voice, black hair threaded with gray and wrinkles forming deep groves into his skin. He shook their hands with enthusiasm and seemed very nice, but the feeling of unease lingered in her stomach.

"I think it would be best if you visit him one at a time," said Dr. Delgado as he showed them through the building. "That way he has a chance to focus on each of you, maybe pick up something he remembers."

"I'll go first," Devika volunteered. She looked to Becca. "I'll be quick anyway. Then, you can take your time."

Becca nodded. Fine with her.

Dr. Delgado said, "I should let you know he's restrained. Arms and legs. Thor has also been using his hammer for insurance. We've been assured Steve barely feels the pressure. He has also acquired an injury to his right hand, though I'm told it's healing nicely."

"Acquired how?" Becca asked. All it took was a look from Dr. Delgado for her to guess the answer, and she dropped her head, wishing she hadn't asked.

"We have two technicians watching surveillance inside and outside at all times, and a third watching Steve's room exclusively." He tapped a door labeled "SECURITY" as they passed. "Thor also stays with Steve during most of the day as an added precaution. I usually have him leave during our sessions. I like to give him the break, and I think it's easier to build rapport when my patients don't feel like their being watched. Of course, if you're more comfortable with Thor in the room, I'm sure he'll stay."

Devika shook her head. "I don't mind seeing Steve alone."

Becca hesitated. She had barely been able to stay in the same room with Steve last time. But if Dr. Delgado thought being alone with Steve was the best way to build a relationship, then she'd do it. Besides, she needed to show him she wasn't afraid to be with him after everything that had happened. Even if she was afraid.

"Same," she said.

Dr. Delgado eyed her. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

"In that case." He stopped at a door flanked by guards. "Wait right here. I'll be out again in a moment."

Dr. Delgado stepped into the room briefly and returned with Thor. Somehow Thor had gotten normal clothes. Becca had been expecting him to be in superhero attire when guarding Steve for some reason, but she supposed it'd be totally unnecessary. Devika entered Steve's room, leaving the three of them out in the hallway.

"May I look in the box?" Dr. Delgado asked.

"Oh, sure." Becca held it out to him. "There is paper. Is that okay? I know it's technically sharp. Maybe I should take it out." She had brought the printed e-mail from her cousin, figuring it might be useful for Steve to hear about his past in his own voice.

"Paper's fine."

While he perused the boxes contents, Becca turned to Thor. "How're you doing?"

"I am well," Thor assured her. "And you? You look as though you have not slept well since last I saw you."

"It's just been hectic trying to get my life back in order." And she was having a hard time sleeping. Every sound in her apartment made her jump and she had to tuck a comforter over her window to make her feel safer. "I wanted to come sooner, but." Becca shrugged. "I really, really appreciate you staying with him like this."

"After all the trouble we took to find him, it seemed foolish not to ensure he stays will us."

Becca winced at his choice of words. "Right. I heard he's…" She couldn't make herself say suicidal. "Unhappy."

Thor seemed at a loss for words as he regarded her. She probably wouldn't have known what to say to herself either. Yup, your boyfriend has tried to kill himself after trying to kill you. That's where we're at. He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake.

"You will make him see sense," Thor assured her.

She hoped so. Now more than ever she needed to get through to him.

Dr. Delgado had her tell him about the items in the box and approved of all four of them. He explained to her how to look out for signs that Steve might recognize one of the items, and instructed that if he seemed to recognize two of them she should keep the others for a different time. Also, he told her to use Steve's name more than usual, which supposedly would help him subconsciously accept the name again or something along those lines. Devika had come out of Steve's room at that point, so she was a little distracted.

With a few final assurances, Dr. Delgado held out a hand towards the door. "You can go in whenever you're ready."

Which would be never. Becca hefted the box in her arms. So it might as well be right now.

The room was as barren and cold as she feared it would be. Plain walls broken up only by a single chair propped against one of them, its pale blue nearly blending in with the paint. It wasn't like being in a prison, as she'd first thought, but a mental institution, a comparison heightened by Steve being strapped to the bed. The restraints didn't shock her – he'd been in restraints at the hospital – but Steve himself did.

He had a five o'clock shadow. She had never seen a hint of stubble on his face, not ever. Her assumption had been that either he shaved every morning right after waking up, or was one of those guys who could go a couple days without shaving because their facial hair didn't grow much. And speaking of hair – It wasn't that his hair looked unwashed, exactly, just not as well washed as usual. And it wasn't combed right. And his lips were chapped.

One glance and Becca wanted to march back out the door proclaiming they weren't taking good enough care of him. Steve liked to look neat. How was he supposed to remember who he was when he looked scruffy? But her protests could wait because Steve met her eyes and pinned her to the floor.

Gooseflesh prickled. Her left foot shifted back of its own accord. He lowered his gaze. Becca took a breath and forced herself to stay.

"Hey." Her brain blanked a moment until she remembered what Dr. Delgado said. "Steve. How're you doing?"

Steve didn't answer. Dr. Delgado said he had been talking. Did he just not want to talk to her? That was okay. She was here for a reason. She was going to show him what she brought.

Becca grabbed the chair and pulled it over towards his bed. "I brought you some of your things to help you remember. I guess I should have brought the art from your apartment to hang up. Would've made it a bit less hospital-y. Maybe next time."

His brow creased, but he didn't offer a comment on whether he'd like anything on the walls. She thought she'd ask Dr. Delgado anyway.

"So, um." Becca took a seat and opened the box. "Okay, Steve. This is your parent's wedding photo." She pulled it out to show him, an old black and white Sam had put in a glossy plastic cover in place of its usual glass frame. "I know I already talked about it a little, but I figured maybe if you saw it? Plus, you were close with your mom." She pointed to Sarah Rogers. "That's her right there. Obviously. Her name was Sarah."

She searched his face for any of the signs of recognition Dr. Delgado had told her about, but Steve barely glanced at the photo before looking back at her. Not at her eyes though. His gaze settled somewhere near her chin.

Okay, he wasn't interested in the photo. She'd looped back to it.

Becca put the photo down and picked up a travel sized toiletry kit. Dr. Delgado had suggested she pick out at least one thing Steve would see every day, which really limited her options. "Kind of a weird choice, I know, but I'm pretty sure you took this when you were on missions, which was most of the time." She unzipped the kit. "Let's see. Comb, nail clippers, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant." The nail scissors and disposable razor had been discretely removed. "All the essentials to keep you smelling and looking as good as you do, which is pretty damn good."

Her smile was met with more silence, and the kit got nothing but another cursory glance from him. She was beginning to wonder if this exercise was a waste of time. No way it could work if Steve had no interest in participating. Maybe she had to attach the objects to a specific memory.

She took out a tie – a brilliant red one with two diagonal cream stripes. "So this is definitely the brightest tie you own. And I specifically remember you showing up in this tie and a very snazzy suit jacket when I told you we were going out clubbing, because I thought you had to at least go once. It was… It was sweet. You looked very nice, but you took one look at what I was wearing and said something like, 'Gee, you think I should go back and change? I feel underdressed.' I told you to screw it, which was probably for the best because it would've been a waste of time. We were at the club for barely five minutes before I could tell you wanted out. So I might've pretended to be suddenly super hungry, and we went out to a nice restaurant nearby where you fit right in and I scandalized everyone, I'm sure."

A pause, and then, "Could I see it?"

Excited that she finally had his interest, Becca held the tie up higher and closer towards him.

"Could I _see_ it?" Steve repeated, and this time she noticed his left hand rise slightly. He was asking to hold the tie.

Caution made her hesitate. She was fairly certain she shouldn't be giving him anything. Plus, he was acting kind of fishy, now that she thought about it. Not able to meet her eyes, a forced casual tone. But what would be lying about? Did Steve think he could pull her close by the tie? And then what? He was in restraints, after all. Or was she mistaking distrust for lying? She couldn't be sure. Steve had never not trusted her before.

"Please."

Becca nibbled her bottom lip. Memory was about more than sight. Touch could be a part of it. If she dropped the tie into his hand, what could he really do? She shifted the box off her lap onto the floor, keeping her eyes on him the whole time. She circled around his bed. Steve tracked her movements, but continued avoiding eye contact.

Just dropping the tie. Nothing to worry about. Thor and Dr. Delgado and two guards were right outside. She stood as far back as possible and held out the tie.

Right before she dropped it, his arm lashed upwards and Steve yanked her towards him. Becca stumbled forwards. Her ears rung, fear exploding through her veins. She saw a flash of something silver in his hand. The door flew open and slammed against the wall, but she couldn't look away. Steve had finally locked gazes with her, his eyes regarding her with a uncertain desperation. Something pressed against her throat. The feeling was horribly familiar. She swallowed, a phantom knife slicing another scar into her skin. But that knife had been steady, and Steve's hand trembled.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded.

For a terrifying moment, Becca couldn't speak. She was going to die, all because she couldn't get out the words. Because she had been stupid. But her throat unstuck, babbling at an increasingly high pitch.

"Want? I don't know what – I – I – Please don't." She clenched the tie in shaking hands. "Just – I – I only – I'm – I just want you to remember that you love me. That's what I want. I want you to remember you love me because – because, because, because – Because if you don't get your memories back, it – none of it mattered."

Not the soldiers who had fallen into the trap she and the Avengers had set. Nor the lies she had told in the media. Nor the months she spent in hiding, whiling away the hours on pointless searches while sinking into debt. Nor the friends who she had texted in an effort to reconnect, who didn't respond. Nor those times during the day when her neck would prickle in fear or at night when she searched her apartment in a fit of paranoia.

Maybe she should have said something else, like she wanted him to be happy or get better. And Becca did. But if Steve didn't become Steve again, everything she had gone through meant approximately jack-shit. He could become some new, happy guy and it wouldn't be enough for her.

Ally had been right to accuse her of needing Steve. Becca did need him. She had told herself so many times that she couldn't think of herself, she couldn't be selfish. The truth was she had been selfish. She had wanted Steve back as much for herself as for him. More, even.

He had agreed to getting an apartment together. He had promised to be around more often. They were meant to be starting a new chapter in their relationship, a better chapter, and she desperately wanted that chapter and another and another all leading to one big, happy ending. Wasn't that how stories with heroes were supposed to end? Perhaps it was an unrealistic dream, one born of watching too many Disney movies as a kid. But she hoped for it anyway. Yeah, things with Steve were uncertain and crazy, but he had made her hope for that happy ending like no one ever had. Because she had never known anyone who deserved it more. And hell, after some of the shit she had put up with from him, she certainly deserved it, too.

So when Steve murmured, "It's better this way," and lowered his hand to his own throat, Becca didn't have to think.

Mjonir flew up the second he moved, nearly faster than she could blink, knocking his arm askew. She grabbed his hand in both of hers and yanked back. A razor sharp pain bit into her palm, and blood flowed out in rivulets as though they had crushed a fruit between their hands instead of a blade.

"You can't!" she shrieked, frightened. He could easily wrench his hand away, and she would have to watch him die. "It's not better! It's not!"

A massive arm wrapped around her, pulling her back. With her life no longer directly threatened, the room had burst into action. Dr. Delgado spoke to Steve with calm authority. The guards converged on the bed. Thor lifted her away.

And in her palm, Becca felt an object. She opened her fingers and saw a piece of blood-coated metal lodged in her flesh. Steve had let go of it. She glanced up at him. He was watching her as the guards tied him back down. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes had a glassy sheen. He looked so sad.

"Becca." Her breath caught. Steve had said her name. "I'm sorry."

It was him. Maybe only for a moment. But this was her Steve. "Wait." Becca struggled in Thor's grasp as he dragged her towards the door. "Hold on. _Everyone hold on for a second!_ "

By some miracle, everyone in the room stilled. Becca took a step forward, rolling her shoulders and Thor let her go. She jerked the metal from her palm and dropped in on the floor, fingers curling protectively over the wound. Fuck that hurt. She held the damaged hand to her chest and faced Steve.

"If you're sorry, then prove it. Talk to me. Really talk. No cameras. No doctors. Just you and me, and Thor can stay so everyone feels safe." She looked over her shoulder at Thor. "If you don't mind." Thor inclined his head in agreement, though he seemed wary. "Okay. So what'd you say?"

Steve considered her, and Becca waited, really hoping she wouldn't see his guard come back up. She also worried Dr. Delgado might say this was a bad idea, but he didn't. At least not out loud, but that's the only thing that mattered currently. She held her breath, hot blood running down her hands. Steve better answer soon because she was starting to feel lightheaded.

Finally, Steve said, "All right."


	18. Something To Lean On

His right hand had been crushed when he had first attempted to kill himself. Thor had broken several of his fingers, which were continuing to heal in their respective splints. During this attempt, it was his left hand that had sustained an injury. The sliver of razor-like metal had cut deep enough into his fingers and palm that one of the doctors had to staple the wound shut. He didn't know which case was considered medically worse, but his intentions in either case would have certainly caused much more permanent damage.

During his first attempt, there had been no hesitation, no second-thoughts, no feelings at all. He had to finish his mission. That was all there was to it. But the days following that attempt brought back flickers of emotions and moments of uncertainty. He had stuck with his mission, hoping that as long as he stayed on the same path, he could figure the rest out. But when he looked at Becca and saw the terror in her face as she babbled and felt the piece of metal in his hand shaking against the white scars on her throat, he had known that he couldn't eliminate his target.

But while Becca would keep her life, he no longer deserved his. He was certain of that down to his core. He got a sick feeling like he had suddenly come down with a bad case of the flu and the sickness mixed with that hot feeling that had flared more frequently in the past few days, the one that made him want to bow his head and hide, to close his eyes and never look behind him at the path he had been walking because if he did, something bad would be looking back. So he had tried to complete the second part of his mission because he thought that if he died, that something would die too and everything would balance out.

Becca had stopped him. She couldn't have physically, but he would have had to hurt her to pull his hand from hers and she was already in so much pain. By reaching out and pleading with him, he had finally begun to believe that she was not trying to pull one over on him. No information he had could make her cry like that. Maybe she really did want him to remember that he loved her. The seed of doubt she planted was enough to make him let go.

He should never have tried to kill himself in front of her. An apology sprung to his lips with her name – her name, it had come out of his mouth without warning. One moment she was Ms. Stroud and then she was Becca, and he wasn't sure why – for trying to do just that. And when she asked to speak to him, and alone apart from Thor standing guard, he had to agree. He owed her a chance to talk.

He looked down at his hands and wished he could remember doing something more with them than causing harm, and wondered what in him exactly Becca thought worth saving.

Dr. Delgado entered the room, his cheery demeanor dampened by a serious expression. He crossed over where blood had been cleaned from the floor and rested his palms against the back of the chair, which had been righted from guards knocking over in their haste to reach the bed.

"Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions, Steve?"

He replied, "Sure."

"How are you feeling right now?" Dr. Delgado asked.

"I…" He struggled to put his feelings into words. There were so many emotions. He wasn't sure how anyone could live with this much conflict inside of them. It made everything so difficult and uncertain. "I've felt better," was all he could come up with, although really the only time he remembered feeling better was when he had felt nothing at all.

Dr. Delgado nodded. "What do you think would be best for you right now? Because if you don't want to talk to Ms. Stroud, that's okay."

"I'll talk to her." He had said he would.

Dr. Delgado surveyed him quietly, seeming to be considering whether or not it was such a good idea to let her in. "Can you promise me that you won't try to harm yourself or Ms. Stroud while she's in the room?"

"Yes," he promised immediately.

"Okay then." Dr. Delgado held up a finger. "But if at any time you'd like her to leave or you start feeling like its getting hard to keep that promise, you tell Ms. Stroud. She wants you to be safe, so she'll get up and go. Okay, Steve?"

"All right."

"Good."

Dr. Delgado gestured to the guards. They filed out of the room before Thor entered followed by Becca. She held her damaged hand to her chest, a trail of staples leading around her thumb and disappearing against her hidden palm. Patches of blood stained her sundress like crimson flowers growing from the printed vine pattern. Her eyes were pink from crying, and looking at the dark blood marring her dress, his eyes grew scratchy with the threat of their own tears.

As Thor lifted his arm, so too did the hammer lift from his chest to fly to Thor's hand. He expected Thor to resume his usual post against the far left wall, but after Becca had taken a seat, Thor stood behind the chair with his hammer at the ready – a clear message that if he should try to harm her, more than fingers would be broken. The threat made his skin prickle in warning, but he ignored it for Becca.

She just stared at him. And stared. He couldn't guess what she might be thinking. She had asked to talk to him, but offered no words herself. He didn't know what to say or what she wanted him to say. The more she stared the more oppressive her silence grew, bearing down on him like an accusation that, though well-deserved, made him want to look away. He had to speak. So he said the first thing that came to him.

"If you wanna talk, we're gonna have to do it out loud 'cause I can only read minds on Mondays and Thursdays."

Becca's expression crumpled. She pressed a fist to her lips and glanced away, looking like she might start crying again. He was discovering that speaking only when answering a direct question or giving an order was one of many things that had been easier during his time with Hydra because apparently he had a real dumb mouth.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

She moved her fist away from her mouth and took a shaky breath. "Steve?"

Her voice sounded hopeful, but he couldn't feed her a lie. "No. Whoever you think that is, I'm not him."

He had thought telling her the truth would be better, but it hurt him to see her so disappointed that she seemed to physically sink in on herself. "Oh. But you remember me? Like, from before?"

"I remember pieces. Or I think I do. At first, I thought that my mind was making it all up, but now I'm not so sure."

He remained too uncertain to accept everything that came to him as a memory. Even if the thoughts were all true memories, he couldn't recall enough context to be sure what these memories meant. Suppose he misinterpreted and made a bad choice? He wasn't willing to risk it.

"What do you remember?" Becca asked.

"That photograph you told me about, the one with you in it. I remember that day a bit. How warm it was. You leaned on my shoulder."

The image came so easily to him, the weight of her head and the brush of her lips on his cheek. That one moment had been captured in his brain to be pulled out at will. It was much harder to reach for other memories when he didn't know how to think of them. New memories seemed to burst into being out of nowhere like flecks of colored paint speckled from an unseen brush, transforming a blank canvas into a tiny bursts of color.

"It's brief glimpses like that, and I can't always make sense of why something comes back," he confided. "Sometimes it's only a sound or how something feels. Like your hair. I remember how it feels to run my fingers through your hair when it's wet, but I can't remember what it looks like or why your hair was wet. I can remember your voice sounds different over the phone, lower. We talked on the phone more than once, I think. And on Skype. I was away a lot?"

Becca had leaned towards him, looking dangerously hopeful. "Yeah. For work. S.H.I.E.L.D. had you traveling all over the place."

The hope in her face flickered and her voice had strained in a way that sounded similar to how it had when she had been upset, so he made an assumption. "You don't like that I was away so much."

Her cheeks pinked. "I mean, I didn't love it. But your work was important. Besides, with S.H.I.E.L.D. gone, you said you'd be around more."

It seemed to him the right promise. If he had a girl who cared for him, he should make the time for her unless there were truly dire circumstances elsewhere. "Was I around more?"

"Well, this was right before Hydra kidnapped you, so no."

He had been told that he had stayed with Hydra for months. Even assuming that he had not been kidnapped but joined voluntarily – of which he was becoming less sure – he had still abandoned her right after making a promise and then attempted to kill her multiple times, and yet here she sat. Her presence was nearly beyond belief and he wondered once more what she could possibly see in him worth such loyalty after what he had done to her.

"It's not your fault," sighed Becca, as though reading his mind. "I know you won't believe me because that's how you are, but nothing that's happened is your fault."

But it was. He had not done anything as far as he could remember that he had not agreed to, and if what he had been told about Hydra was true, he had allowed them to turn him into a terrorist.

Becca rested her hands on her lap and winced, her injured hand flinching upwards. She chewed the corner of her lip, and out of nowhere he was struck with a memory of her doing the same thing, except her face seemed thinner. However, she regarded him with the same anxiety, like she had something to say but wasn't sure if she should – or could – say it.

Whether she had spoken up in his memory was a mystery, but she did now. "Did someone in Hydra tell you to –" Her voice broke and she closed her eyes momentarily to pull herself back together. "– to kill yourself?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Is that the only reason you keep trying?"

He hesitated, but she had squared her shoulders, bracing for the truth. Quietly, he admitted, "No," and felt the hot flood of emotion that made it difficult to look her in the eye.

Becca nodded, lips pressed together like she was holding back a sob and her already glassy eyes turned wet. She sniffed and ran the back of her knuckles across one eye. "I just wish I knew what to say to you to make you change your mind. I looked stuff up. I talked to Dr. Delgado. But I'm so afraid I'll say the wrong thing or it won't be enough. Because before this happened I thought if I could make you happy and if I could get you to talk a little, maybe you'd get a handle on your PTSD or depression or whatever this is, but obviously it wasn't good enough because the shit you go through is on a whole other level and I don't know how to reach you there."

He felt something new then. An overwhelming need to comfort her and tell her that everything would be all right. It wasn't her fault that he felt this way, but rather his for putting this burden on her.

"You did make me happy," he assured her. "When I remember something about you, those memories feel good. A lot more than most of the others." That momentary glow was usually followed by a pall of gloomier feelings, but he knew that was not what Becca needed to hear.

Becca regarded him with uncertainty that was broken by a brief smile. "Then, I want to make more good memories." Her smile faded. "But you have to get help. Professional help. Dr. Delgado seems like he'd be a good start. But if you don't trust him enough to talk to him, I'm sure he'd refer you to someone else or I can find someone. Try talking to a therapist, see what they suggest. Try taking meds and see if that makes a difference. It might not make you feel better, but it's definitely not gonna make you feel worse."

He worked his jaw as he pondered her request. If only he could be sure these were the right people to trust. He would certainly like to feel better. It could be difficult at times to concentrate. And at other times, his emotions rose up like a wave and smashed down on him, pinning him to the bed and making him numb. And as he experienced these feeling, he sensed their echoes in his memory. He had been unhappy before. But how could he be sure this was worth the risk? And he didn't so much like the idea of confiding in someone. Somehow it didn't seem like the way he was supposed to handle himself.

Becca rose from her chair, Thor shifting to attention behind her. She approached the bed, trepidation making her movements stiff. Fear rose in her eyes and trembled in her fingers, but she touched the same hand with which he had tried to smother her. "Will you please try? So we can get started on those memories?"

He wasn't able to comprehend how Becca could suggest making more memories when she was so clearly afraid of him. He thought she would be much better off finding another man to spend her time with, rather than wasting it on him.

"Why would you want to be around me? I tried to kill you," he pointed out.

But Becca's gaze flashed with an intensity that sharpened her soft face. "Steve hasn't. He hasn't," she repeated, and he wasn't sure if the repetition was meant for him or she needed to convince herself. "And once you get your memories back, you'll be him again. But I'm worried that if you don't get professional help, Steve will come back with more guilt than ever. And that's saying something." The tips of her still-trembling fingers curled around his hand "So will you try?"

He knew he should say no and tell her to leave. Becca would have to go, like Dr. Delgado said. But somehow he didn't think she would go far. And if she planned on fighting for him, it seemed spineless not to put in some effort. Maybe he hadn't been that swell of a person, but he'd like to be the kind of guy she though he was.

"All right, I'll try," he consented.

She gave him a tight smile and lightly squeezed his hand before letting go. "Thank you."

He nodded and cast about for something else to say because he thought he should say more, but everything inside him seemed jumbled. He noticed the box she had brought sitting discarded beneath the chair.

"Is there anything else in that box?" he asked, hoping maybe if he remembered something she brought it'd be a step towards being Steve.

"Yeah, but um, I need to go use the ladies' room quick," said Becca, turning abruptly. "I'll be right back." She walked away from him with swift, jerky steps, like she was holding back from running.

Watching her disappear, he felt another new emotion – which she apparently had a talent for bringing out in him. It felt similar to being uncertain, but while also needing to be certain. He rose up the inch he could, looking at the closed door. He caught Thor regarding him with a curious expression.

"I will go look after her," Thor said, and the feeling abated somewhat.

"Thanks," he replied, settling back down on the bed before realizing what he had said.

Maybe Becca was right, and he could be Steve. From what memories had come to him so far, he thought had cared about her. And it seemed he was starting to again.

* * *

Becca nearly jumped backwards at the shuffle of guards crowding her as soon as she left Steve's room. She said, "Bathroom?" and they relaxed.

"It's this way," one of the guards indicated. He showed her down the hallways at an increasing pace as she sped along. "Everything going all right in there?"

She nodded, too afraid to open her mouth and get sick in the middle of the hallway.

"Right here." He tapped the door in case she missed the placard somehow, which she might have in her haste.

Nodding her thanks, Becca yanked open the bathroom door and shut it tight behind her. She braced herself against the back of the toilet as her stomach lurched, thinking at the last second that she should've held her hair back. But it wouldn't have made a difference. She had been so nervous about whether she had picked the right items and how Steve would react to her visit that she'd eaten nothing but a slice of toast today. Her empty stomach clenched painfully several times before giving up and allowing her to sink to the cold tile.

Every goddamn time it was one step forward, two steps back. When she walked into a room with Steve her skin crawled and touching him made her physically ill. So how the fuck was she supposed to be around him? Not that he needed her to be around.

When Steve had admitted that there was more to his suicidal impulses than an order from Hydra, her mind had spun with late night internet searches on what to say to a suicidal loved one and Dr. Delgado's suggestions for subjects to broach or avoid and the memory of Steve bringing the blade to his throat and the throbbing of her sliced hand. It was too much. She had been swimming towards Steve with a life preserver for so long and ended up in choppy waters way out of her depth. He didn't need her dinky, homemade life preserver. He needed the coast guard. She could paddle him over to their boat, but the rest was up to him and them. They were the professionals. Ally had been right. She wasn't qualified to help Steve.

Becca leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. The temperature in the building was practically freezing compared to outside, and she hunkered into a ball, her sundress hiking up around her waist.

Four knocks sounded on the door. "Are you all right?" Dr. Delgado asked.

Embarrassed to be checked up on, she assured him, "Yeah. You can go do whatever you need to. I'll be out in bit."

"Would it be okay if I came in?"

Since he was clearly not at all fooled by her faked nonchalance, Becca blew her nose into a piece of toilet paper and got to her feet. She didn't want him to waste his time idling outside like a parent waiting on their pouty kid. She turned the handle to let him in, purposely leaving the door open so Dr. Delgado wouldn't feel compelled to turn this into a therapy session.

"I got a little overwhelmed," she admitted. "I'll be fine in a few minutes."

Dr. Delgado smiled, not patronizingly and yet in a way that communicated that she had yet again failed to fool him. "I think we can both agree that's not true."

No, it wasn't true. She hadn't been "fine" for months, and she wasn't going to start being "fine" in the next five minutes. If anything, she was feeling progressively worse.

"When I touched his hand, I felt sick." Becca wiped her nose and sniffed. "Steve's my boyfriend and touching him makes me puke. It's so fucked."

"It's a perfectly natural response," Dr. Delgado stated. "He has made several attempts on your life, including one in the past hour. You've developed what's called an 'acute stress reaction,' which is a physical or emotional response to traumatic stress. In your case, contact with Steve has become a stressor, and so when you touched his hand, it triggered a response."

Becca sighed. "I know you're trying to help, but the medical mumbo-jumbo really isn't making me feel better, so if you could just give me a minute or two."

"Of course." Dr. Delgado nodded. "But I do want you to know that acute stress reactions rarely become permanent. You are not alone in what you are feeling. And I do know Dr. Rice has worked closely with people in this kind of situation, including couples. Have you spoken with her?"

In fact, Becca had been so busy that she had forgotten about Dr. Rice until this moment. She sort of remembered Dr. Delgado referring her after breaking the news about Steve's suicide attempt. He had mentioned something about Dr. Rice working with veterans, which she wasn't. Oh wait. That's right, and their families, which she assumed included whomever the veterans were dating. But she had put the referral aside because she didn't have the money or the time. And basically, she still had neither of those.

But to placate Dr. Delgado, she said, "I've been meaning to. I'll get to it eventually."

He smiled. Apparently, she wasn't going to get anything past him at all. "Sooner would be best. I'd like to offer you one last piece of advice, if I may, before leaving you in peace."

Becca shrugged. "Okay."

"There is a certain amount of stress that someone can learn to handle in their daily lives, and it varies significantly from person to person. Being a partner of someone with a mental illness can increase that stress, and I think I can fairly assume the same for being the partner of a superhero. Not everyone can learn to manage living with this much stress, and if they need to remove themselves from the relationship for their own well-being, whether it be for a week or permanently, it doesn't make them a bad person.

Dr. Delgado put a hand on her arm. "Your own health needs to come first. It does no good for you or Steve if you stay around him out of obligation, or even because you love him, while your health breaks down. I am not trying to make a choice for you, but you should know that you have a choice and either choice you make is okay. You are not responsible for Steve. You are only responsible for yourself."

Becca stared at Dr. Delgado as though he'd been speaking a foreign language. Remove herself from her relationship with Steve? After everything they had gone through? Uh-huh. No way. He had stuck with her when she'd been a pill-popping monster, acting under the influence of drugs. She wasn't about to walk away because he was depressed, acting out because he had been brainwashed. Besides, she had chosen to take the pills, and she was 100% sure Steve had _not_ chosen to have his memory wiped and be put through tons of traumatic shit. He had been there for her, and she was going to be around for him. So she couldn't help him right now, but she sure as hell meant to be waving pom-poms from the sidelines.

"Thanks, but I'm staying," she affirmed with more force than intended, causing Dr. Delgado to assure that he had meant no offense. He left her in the bathroom, though not before she saw that Thor had been waiting outside. She gave him a reassuring wave and asked him to tell Steve she'd be back in a minute.

After slurping some water from the sink, Becca returned to Steve's room and read him the e-mail he'd written to her cousin. She also, at his request, took the other items out of the box so he could inspect them more closely. Not distance-wise – she remained in her chair a couple of feet from his bed – but rather he had her turn the items in her hands while he peered at them. He seemed most interested in the e-mail, admitting that parts of his past sounded familiar, and some slivers he remembered directly.

Getting him to open up to her was progress, but she couldn't shake the sick feeling she got being around him. Worse, Dr. Delgado's advice wouldn't go away.

Up until that fateful day when she'd been an idiot and let herself get lured to the Triskeleton, Becca had only needed to deal with the chaos that accompanied dating someone like Steve in tiny, sporadic bursts. They didn't see each other often, and when they did, they usually avoided places where they were likely to get mobbed by the press or fans. So the stress of dating a celebrity had been pretty low for the most part.

But she now realized that wouldn't always be the case. Her entire life had been sucked up for months – months! – throwing everything into chaos from her financial situation to her friendships. And by dating Steve, she had painted a big neon target on her back for all his enemies. Before being captured by Hydra, she might have snorted and rolled her eyes at the cliché of kidnapping the girlfriend, but nothing about the experience had been the least bit funny. And finally, she couldn't rely on her innate sense of trust in people anymore. She had walked off with a man in Steve's apartment because he had said he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., but was actually a Hydra agent. And apparently Devika was Hydra too, because she mysteriously vanished. Becca had to be picked up from visiting Steve by Agent Finch. Two of the guards had volunteered to drive her back to New York, but she'd been too nervous to trust either of them.

Being a superhero's girlfriend wasn't something that was simply a little stressful at times. Surprise, it was a little stressful at times and a _lot_ stressful – and life-threatening – at others. If she kept dating Steve, she was agreeing to toss her whole life into the air at a moment's notice. She was walking out the door knowing it was probably safe, but on the other hand, a Hydra agent might yank her into a passing car just to make a point to Steve. She was sending him a text message, hoping someone hadn't decided to tap her phone. As long as she stayed with Steve, her life would never be wholly her own.

Was she prepared to deal with that?

Go back half a year, her answer would have been a resounding, "Of course!" But after seeing bodies and feeling responsible, being tortured, staying up nights in fear of an attack, waiting sick with worry for the smallest scrap of news, having a near-death experience, and knowing it could all happen again, Becca reconsidered.

It happened in cycles. The question would come up again, while at work or at home, consuming her thoughts. She would debate back and forth. Inevitably, she ended up feeling terrible for even considering breaking up with Steve. She'd beat herself up, then psych herself up, saying it was all worth it, of course it was worth it. Then, she continued whatever she'd been doing until she jumped ten feet in the air when someone tapped her shoulder or found herself listening nervously to footsteps walking down the hall outside her apartment, at which point the cycle started again.

She was losing focus easily. The mom and pop grocery store that had hired her to work evenings and weekends fired her after less than a week because she spaced out on three customers, so she was back to looking for a second job. Her eating habits fluctuated, although it would have been worse if Ally hadn't been around for breakfast and dinner most days. She didn't sleep much, mind racing when she lay down, so she took to wandering through the apartment. She was stressed, about money and her family and some friends who seemed determined to keep in constant contact which she didn't have the time for. And also about living arraignments.

On the way to work one morning, Ally had said, "Hey, I've been meaning to tell you, but I know you've got a lot on your plate. We have to be moved out by the end of the month."

Becca had grimaced, figuring it was her fault. She hadn't scrounged up enough for rent. "Sorry."

"It's not because of anything you did. Well, I guess it kinda is. After you said that you and Steve had decided to get an apartment together, I told our landlord we wouldn't be renewing our lease. I honestly forgot about it until she said she was going to be setting up apartment showings. I could still renew the lease if you wanted."

Apartments in New York City weren't cheap even if they were the size of broom closets, and their apartment was definitely not a broom closet. Every month would be racking up more of a debt owed to Ally.

"No, it's fine," Becca had replied. "I can couch surf for a while." She'd have to call her parents and see if they minded keeping her stuff at their house.

Ally had quickly added, "Danny said you can stay on his couch. He doesn't mind. And we can look for a two-bedroom apartment together. Unless you think you and Steve…?"

Getting an apartment with Steve seemed such a distant thing, if it ever were to happen. But when he got out of treatment, he would have nowhere to go. "I'll get back to you."

"Okay. No rush."

Except it was sort of a rush because she would be holding Ally and Danny back while she debated. So she added it to the ever-growing list of decisions and responsibilities that was keeping her up nights.

Almost two weeks after seeing Steve, Becca lay in bed on one such night, staring at the red 2:13 AM on her clock. The air conditioner had been running full blast since she arrived home from work, and the air had turned frigid. She was sweating under a mound of blankets, but if she took them off, she'd freeze. If she turned off the air conditioner, then she would be boiling. No way to win.

The air conditioner let out a loud _thump_ , and she tensed at the sound. It startled her every time. Suddenly furious, she flung her pillow at the offending appliance. Stupid fucking air conditioner. She pulled the blankets over her head, eyes stinging with tears.

It was irrational to be so mad at her air conditioner, which had been making the exact same thumping noise for going on three years. But she needed to be angry at something because she'd been keeping it all bottled up. And obviously it was a terrible idea to be bottling up everything she was feeling and she really should be seeing a therapist or something, but she couldn't so…

Becca rubbed her eyes. She just needed to sleep. One solid night of deep, dreamless sleep and she could get through the week.

She flung the blankets back and marched over to her desk, opening the drawer in which she'd tossed the unnecessary items from her purse on a whim. Steve's prescription Oxycodone bottle lay on its side, the bright orange plastic setting off a glow in the moonlight. She read the label, considered the dosage, and shook three tablets into her hand.

Never again. That was the promise Becca had made herself. She wouldn't take Adderall or Oxycodone, even if a doctor suggested it, as they had with Oxy for her neck wounds. She had almost broken the promise after thinking Steve dead, but Natasha had interrupted her and she had been determined not to even touch the bottle afterwards.

Yet here she was, with three tablets of Oxy in her hand. Everyone would be so disappointed in her. She rolled the tablets with her thumb. But everyone wasn't here. And it was only for one night. This wasn't her addiction talking; she desperately needed the sleep.

Before she could change her mind, Becca popped the tablets into her mouth and snagged the water bottle from her nightstand to wash them down. There. No use fussing. She dropped the medication bottle into the trash to prove her resolve not to take any more Oxy and slipped back into bed.

The sleepy tendrils of Oxy soon unfurled, pulling her into the type of sleep she had wanted. No dreams. Only eyes closed one minute, and Ally shaking her awake the next.

"Come on, sleepyhead. You'd better get up if you want breakfast."

Becca groaned and rolled over. She felt like shit. God, she'd forgotten how terrible the aftereffects of Oxy were. There had been a reason she'd taken the Adderall.

"Be right there," she mumbled.

Eventually, Ally had to drag her from bed and shoved a granola bar into one hand and banana in the other as she hustled Becca out the door. Becca bit back the urge to snap at her. So much for a good night's sleep to give her a boost.

Except, once the Oxy wore off, Becca actually did feel better. Her head was clear; her body seemed lighter. She smiled more. She felt like a human being again. It was a really nice change.

She lasted four days before fishing the medication bottle out of the trash. The search for a second job hadn't been going well, and a creditor had tracked down her new, unlisted number somehow and had been hounding her. There were only so many tablets in the bottle anyway. It wasn't like she would keep taking them forever. She took two and a half tablets instead of three and put the bottle in her desk.

Three days. Dr. Delgado called to check in. He said Steve had been making progress, and that he'd asked after her. Becca cried over her continued indecision about their relationship and how terrible she was being for not going to visit Steve. She took three tablets again.

Two days. She'd had a lot of trouble concentrating due to a massive headache and run into a reporter, who asked her a lot of personal questions she didn't want to answer. She took three more tablets.

One day. She was barely eating, and Ally had asked if she needed a day off work. Everything seemed so overwhelming. She just wanted to sleep. She worriedly eyed the dwindling supply of Oxy. Maybe if she went to a doctor and complained about her neck bothering her, she could get that prescription. She tossed two tablets into her mouth and went to bed, thinking about what she was going to do in the coming days because she needed the sleep.

Realizing she was an addict had been hard. But falling back onto an addiction in times of stress? Turned out it was the easiest thing in the world.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **First off, to the reviewer Alli, thank you and I definitely plan on finishing the series.**

 **And secondly, I am not usually someone who likes to get personal, but after writing the past two chapters, I decided there was something I should say. Thank you in advance for your time and respect.**

 **When I was sixteen, I made my first suicide attempt. I was diagnosed with depression, which I still live with eight years later. About a year after that attempt, my favorite aunt killed herself. So I have some idea of what it is like to be on either side of depression. Of course everyone's experience is different, but please know that if you have depression or someone you love has depression, you are not alone. There are people out there like you - and people who aren't - and we want you to have the best life you can. If you are feeling depressed and/or suicidal or you are unsure how to help someone who is, please reach out. Talk to a friend, call a hotline, set up a therapy session, or try a chat forum (but please use caution while online.) You are not being a burden to anyone by reaching out. You can make it through another day. You deserve to be supported and to be happy.**


	19. Choices

Trying to keep his promise to Becca proved to be about as difficult as he'd anticipated.

Although Dr. Delgado was patient and never pushed for answers when he didn't want to give them, he found it hard to speak up on most subjects nonetheless. He would not talk about Hydra on the chance it was the world-balancing organization as Dr. Henson had proclaimed, though his faith became shakier by the day. Neither could he bring himself to talk about the flashes of memory which truly pained him – Bucky growing smaller as he plummeted down a snowy gorge, the sound of the groans and sobs of dying soldiers beneath rattling gunfire. It didn't sit right to talk about those things. He was sure they were supposed to remain locked inside him, like grenades sealed in boxes.

Mostly when Dr. Delgado visited him, he talked about the smaller memories, those he struggled to connect with a name or time or place. Dr. Delgado helped him order them, sometimes coming back the following day with pictures or research.

After a week, they removed his restraints and Dr. Delgado gave him a journal and felt-tipped pen so that he could record his memories. Half a day might pass in which nothing new came to him. Other times, he worked incessantly for hours, the writing messy due to his damaged hands. He ripped pages from the journal and drew connecting lines, reordering the events. As time went on, sketches appeared, mapping his life in pictures as well as words. Creating this physical structure of his life made him feel more secure.

That was another part of what he worked on with Dr. Delgado, feelings. The shrink seemed very curious at his ability to identify emotions in others but not recognize his own. On a trip to a local hospital, he got some x-rays for his broken bones and then an MRI to get a closer look at his brain. Dr. Delgado and another doctor took turns talking to him and having him answer questions during the MRI. Afterwards, Dr. Delgado showed him images of his brain and explained that certain parts which dealt with memory and emotion were displaying lower than average levels of activity.

"But you have a remarkable capacity for healing," Dr. Delgado said with a reassuring smile. "And I think we can give you the tools to help accelerate the speed of your recovery."

Together, they began to put names to those emotions he couldn't name in himself from happiness to shame. Each existed inside him, pairing with different memories which he noted in his journal. Sitting in front of a river sketching the ducks on the water – peaceful. Standing on a plane with the wind rushing below him and a parachute on this back – anxious, excited. The more the emotions came to him, the better he got about recognizing them, but it wasn't always easy. Emotions could be messy, tangling together in snarls with certain memories and especially with people. Bucky, for one, made him feel complicated. But Becca even more so.

He was speaking with Dr. Delgado about the day he had almost killed Becca and himself – the one truly complex part of his life he thought he should talk to his shrink about. They had spoken of it several times, and on this occasion Dr. Deglado was actually pushing him.

" _Why_ couldn't you kill her, Steve?"

Before he had answered that he didn't know why and that had been good enough. "I didn't want to hurt her."

"Why?" Dr. Delgado pressed.

"Because…"

"Because…?"

"I think we ought to get a real doctor in here to look at my ears. I'm starting to hear an echo," he remarked out of frustration.

Unmoved, Dr. Delgado suggested, "Maybe she made you feel a certain way?"

He snorted and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. Becca made him feel a lot of ways, and none of them stood out particularly. "No, she makes me feel everything. Happy. Sad. Frustrated. Ashamed. I think I'm even afraid of her, but I can't remember anything she did that should make me feel like that."

Dr. Delgado laughed. "I don't think it's anything she's done. I think it's something you've done. You fell in love with her."

He thought over all the memories he had of Becca. He was certain that she had been his best girl at some point in his recent past. If they had dated for a while, it stood to reason that he would fall in love with her.

"I guess I must've."

"But you're not sure you still do?" Dr. Delgado inquired.

He looked at the shrink's face for any sign of judgment, but found none. So he thought. Becca hadn't done anything to him as far as he could recall that should make him not love her anymore. And at the hospital she said that she still loved him. But she had not been back to see him in a long time, even though she had mentioned coming to visit. His stomach twisted. He was worried.

He asked, "Have you talked to her?"

This was not the first time he had asked after Becca, but it was the first time Dr. Delgado had nodded. "I spoke with her yesterday, in fact."

"How is she?"

"Well, I think. Although she sounded tired. I believe she's been busy with work."

"Hm." He tried to remembered what Becca did for work, but couldn't.

Dr. Delgado gave him a moment before pressing, "Are you avoiding the question because you don't want to talk about how you feel about Becca or because you don't know the answer? Because it's okay if you don't know."

He sighed. He thought he should have an answer for Dr. Delgado, and for Becca, but he didn't. "I don't know." Suddenly curious, he asked, "Why'd you keep asking this time?"

"Because I want to help you find what's important to you. It's those things which keep us going, and love can be a strong motivator. But if you don't feel the same about Becca, then." Dr. Delgado shrugged. "You aren't going to be the exact same person you were before, Steve, and there's nothing wrong with that. As long as you become someone you can live with, that's what matters."

The assurance relieved the pressure which had been building up. He had wanted to be Steve because it seemed like that person was much better than him. But knowing he had leeway to grow into this new person he was becoming gave him breathing room. Maybe that new person was Steve, but a Steve he created on his own terms. He had wondered why Dr. Henson had never given him a real name while the other soldiers on the compound had names, and now perhaps he knew. Giving him a name made him a person, which meant he could make his own choices. And when he was given a chance, he would find out through those choices who he had become.

As his sessions with Dr. Delgado progressed, the security around him relaxed. He was given a walker, which he could rest his arms against to wheel himself to the bathroom. He took one look at his stubble in the mirror – closer to a beard really – and asked for a razor. This caused a stir amongst the guard and doctor, their nerves visible. He wouldn't have been surprised if he request had been denied. Instead, he was met with a compromise. A doctor shaved his face for him. He was sure to sit absolutely still so everyone knew he wasn't about to try anything. His cooperation must have pleased someone up top because that night at dinner, a plastic knife rested beside the fork and spoon. Of course, Thor watched him eat with more attentiveness than he had in days, but it was to be expected.

Thor didn't stand guard quite as often, and sat more frequently instead of standing. He would chat with Thor at times, and Thor offered what he remembered of the battle in New York with the other Avengers. They talked too of Asgard, and when their debate about politics got heated enough that another guard came in to replace Thor for the remainder of that day, they moved on to military strategy.

And he had visitors. Sam – his face was familiar, but he required an introduction – came twice. The first time, Sam brought a bag of clothes. Apparently, he had been moving out of his apartment on the day when Hydra (recruited? captured?) him, and Sam had brought all his possessions to a storage locker. His pants couldn't be pulled over the metal contraption keeping the screws in his heel in place, but the shirts and underwear did make him feel less like a patient in a hospital. The second time Sam brought two pieces of art with temporary hooks to hang on the walls and a couple boxes of pizza.

He decided very quickly that he liked Sam. Sam had a tranquil, easygoing presence, but he spoke his mind, too. Plus, Sam didn't appear to have any expectations of him, just asked how he was and pushed no further. He also appreciated that Sam wasn't afraid to sit near him or touch him, which most everyone except Dr. Delgado seemed to avoid unless completely necessary.

Agent Romanoff – Nat, he later remembered calling her – also came by. Her visit was brief, and he had a hard time getting any kind of read off her. He did apologize for dropping the chair on her, which she accepted with a nod. She almost left before he could decide what to think about her, but right before she headed out the door, her expression softened for a moment and she said, "I hope you get better, Rogers. We could use you out there." So he figured she was all right.

The other visitors were various law enforcement officers asking about Hydra, plenty of doctors to check in on him, and his lawyer Maggie with updates on how his case was progressing and whether any legal team would be sending more doctors to evaluate him. Most of these visits meant little to him. He didn't tell the law enforcement anything. He cooperated with the doctors for the most part. Maggie gave only brief updates as his case was moving so slowly.

But then, he got a visit from Maggie which was much more interesting.

"The C.I.A. found Ms. Devika Majumadar in Canada," Maggie informed him. "And she said she won't speak to anyone but you."

He had spent plenty of hours pondering Ms. Majumadar lately. Mostly her last words to him.

" _I'm sorry. She said if I did this, I could finally leave. You changed my mind about Hydra. I'm done with them."_

The issue of who and what Hydra was had become increasingly problematic to him. He had remembered killing a dog on Henson's orders and recalled something that crossed between a memory and a dream of a red banner with Hydra's symbol becoming inexplicably intertwined with a swastika. He needed to know what Ms. Majumadar had meant about him changing her mind when it came to Hydra. Why had she quit?

So he told Maggie that he wanted to talk to her.

Two days later, he was driven in a van to an undisclosed location for the meeting. It occurred to him as the wheels bumped and jostled along the highway that he hadn't made any escape attempt. Security had relaxed; he was being trusted enough to go outside. If he could surprise Thor, he might be able to get control of the van.

But he didn't make a move. He needed to speak to Ms. Majumadar. And deeper down, he didn't want to break the trust he had built with these people. As long as Ms. Majumadar gave him no reason to leave, he didn't see why he had to let anyone down.

His hands had mostly healed, and so his walker had been traded for the crutches he was given as he slid from the back of the van in front of what looked like a normal house, albeit on a large expanse of empty land. Maggie waited for him inside along with law enforcement. She fussed over him, making sure he still wanted to go through with the meeting and laughing good-naturedly at the combination of formal shirt and tie with sweatpants that fit over the boot on his injured foot. When he confirmed that he did want to see Ms. Majumadar, the agents took over.

"You will enter the room and sit down in the empty chair immediately," an agent stated. "If you stand up, the meeting is over. If you make any move towards Ms. Majumadar or she makes a move towards you, the meeting is over. If you do not speak loudly and clearly, the meeting is over. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," he said.

"You are not authorized to make any deals with Ms. Majumadar. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Let's go."

One of the rooms had been converted into the kind found in police stations on TV, the walls bare with a large pane of one-way glass, a table screwed tightly to the floor, and two chairs. Ms. Majumadar sat in one of the chairs, cuffed to a bar on the table. She looked like she had neither slept nor showered in days. Her dark hair had turned to an oily hornet's nest, and the bruises beneath her eyes had turned a yellowish-black. She held herself up straight, like she was unconcerned, but the relief in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Thank you for seeing me," Ms. Majumadar said as he sat down. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"So am I," he replied, and for the moment, it was true.

"I heard Becca's still alive, too."

"Yes."

"Good," Ms. Majumadar sighed. "Then they didn't win."

"Hydra?"

She nodded.

"I wanted to ask you about them," he informed her, catching himself from leaning forwards and potentially bringing an early end to the meeting. "And what you said about me making you change your mind."

Ms. Majumadar wet her lips. "Hydra approached me about a week after S.H.I.E.L.D. assigned me to be your publicist. They offered me a lot of money to pass along information about you. Where you'd be, what offers were coming your way, and which offers I should even tell you about or direct you towards. I don't know what your pay was like, but mine was mediocre, so I took the money."

That she had joined Hydra for money did nothing to inspire confidence in the organization. And he didn't think much at all of Hydra spying on him. It seemed very off. From what Ms. Majumadar said, and what he remembered in the compound, Hydra had an obsession with control at odds with what Dr. Henson had laid out as their mission.

"It seemed worth it since you were such a pain in my ass, running your mouth off all the time," Ms. Majumadar continued, a tiny smile flitting across her lips. "But the more I was around you, the more I respected you. You were this – this incorruptible person genuinely trying to do good. You really were Captain America. But Henson got you and what she did…"

He remembered that name. Captain America was written in several places in his journal, once penned beside a sketch of his shield. He couldn't remember if he had ever actually achieved the rank of captain in the army, but the name existed before. Dr. Delgado had shown him pictures of vintage posters and even a grainy promotional reel which had been placed chronologically before fighting in the Second World War. As he understood it, Captain America was more of a symbol than a real person, although "superhero" had also become attached to the name. He had been told that he had achieved good with the symbol, and flashes had come to him of doing more than killing with his hands in the red gloves. Lifting up a dying man and hefting him over his shoulders. Clearing away rubble to pull out a child.

Whether or not anyone was incorruptible, he wasn't sure, but if Ms. Majumadar had believed in Captain America, then so had others. Hydra had taken the symbol and made it theirs. He could recall the fear in the eyes of every person he had murdered as just "Captain." But also, how they had trusted him at first and been confused.

And he knew then that his worst fears were true. Hydra was a terrorist organization, and he had been their weapon. He burned with anger. They had used him.

Ms. Majumadar hurried on. "I told my supervisor I wanted to quit. She said no. She wanted me to keep an eye on Becca and the Avengers. Then, Henson contacted me. She said if I got to you with Becca and a weapon and passed along her message, I'd be free."

He folded his arms. She had been willing trade Becca's life and his life for her freedom. Not for any further reason, like to protect a family or friends. He hadn't known what to make of Ms. Majumadar when she first visited him, but Becca must have trusted her. Becca had told him that Ms. Majumadar had driven her down from New York to see him. She had mentioned it casually as she left.

"Guess I better go figure out a ride home," she had said. "Devika drove me down." Her face had pinched for a moment, saddened, afraid.

She had trusted Ms. Majumadar. He knew, _knew_ that her trust had been betrayed more than once and therefore far too often. Something to do with Hydra. Something from before. And he had broken her trust as well. Becca deserved better than being treated as a dispensable target. She was much, much more.

"Why did you want to talk to me?" he demanded.

Ms. Majumadar flinched at the rage in his voice. "I know I have no right to ask, but I need your help. Please. I'll tell the C.I.A. or F.B.I. whatever they want to know, but I need protection."

He stared at her, incredulous that she was asking for his help after what she had done. He pointed towards the door. "Then tell them."

"I don't trust them!" Ms. Majumadar clasped her hands together. "Please. Hydra will kill me. I know they will. You must have people you know, trustworthy people. The Avengers. Tony Stark has money. I swear I'll disappear. I'll live a normal life. I'll be better. Please." Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to die. Please help me."

He could refuse. His instructions had been not to make any bargains. The second he stood up from the table, the meeting would be over. Ms. Majumadar had more or less done the same to Becca and himself when she walked away. Yet, as he watched her sobbing, he made a choice. Not the choice he would have made with Hydra. This was his choice.

"All right. Tell them what you know about Hydra, and I'll make sure you have a safe place to go after," Steve said.

Ms. Majumadar gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. "Thank you." She reached out towards him, and agents spilled into the room.

They were not happy that he had made a deal and Maggie didn't seem particularly thrilled either, but Steve didn't care. Ms. Majumadar had asked for his help, and if giving it meant saving her life, then he would do what he could for her. Not that he would be going out of his way to make sure she was wealthy and comfortable, but she should have enough for a new life. Maybe she would do better with this second chance. He intended to do better with his.

Deciding he had caused enough of an uproar for one day, he quietly told Maggie to let him know if he needed to talk to Mr. Stark. She sighed deeply, but brightened when he added that she could contact whomever she thought most wanted to talk to him about Hydra. He was done protecting them.

* * *

Hands gripped her shoulder, shaking violently. Becca rose through the depths of sleep, pulled upwards by those hands against the pressure of medication beckoning her back down. She had known that a single tablet or two of Oxy wouldn't be enough, so she had swallowed the remaining four tablets for one long night of dreamless sleep. It had to carry her through the next week at least. But if she couldn't make it after, then she would get more.

Her head pounded as her eyes slitted open, meeting Ally's midsection. "Isthe…" she slurred, her mind still rising through the haze of sleep and Oxy. "Fiveminutes." She closed her eyes.

Ally's footsteps retreated, but only a few steps and she was back. "What is this?" she hissed.

Becca was more curious at the anger than whatever Ally was talking about. She peeked open an eye and discovered the empty bottle of Oxy shoved right in her face. Shit, she had left it on the desk. The label had noted there was one refill left on the prescription. Whether she would be able to get the refill – if she needed it – was a big question mark, but the option was there.

She groaned and rolled over. Ally was obviously raring for a fight, and she had no desire to get into an argument.

"I needed meds to sleep, okay? It's not a big deal. We'll talk later." She could feel Ally standing above her. Judging her. Whatever.

Plastic smacked into the back of her head. Becca shot up. "Ow! What the hell?"

Ally glared at her. Her cheeks had turned a papery white, her eyes narrowed like an angry cat's. "After everything we've gone through, this isn't 'a big deal' to you?"

Becca glared back. She couldn't believe Ally was talking like she had clue how it felt to be living in the middle of this disaster. If Ally felt even an ounce of what she walked around with everyday, she'd be chugging whole bottles of Oxy just for the relief of sleep.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Have 'we' being going through tons of bad shit?" she drawled. "Because I was under the impression that you've been living your normal life with your normal job and your normal boyfriend, while _my_ life, job, and boyfriend have gone to pieces."

Ally sucked in a deep breath, and in a carefully level voice started, "I know it's been tough –"

Becca snorted. "You don't have a clue."

"Fine!" Ally balled her hands into fists. "You're right. I have no idea what it's like to be you. But it hasn't been easy for me either, you know. Our apartment was tapped. I had anything I'd ever said in this place in the past year and a half dumped onto the internet. My dad couldn't even look at me for weeks, he was so ashamed of some of the things people told him. I lost friends. I can't stand to live in my own home. And then, you disappear. I was harassed by reporters. I barely got any news through your parents. I was scared sick you'd end up dead. And when finally, finally the dust clears and you're back, all I've gotten from you ninety percent of the time is either tears, being really resentful about accepting my help – which I've barely offered because I know how much you hate it – or acting so on edge that it makes everyone, including me, nervous."

Un-fucking-believable. "You're right. I've just had to hide out for months and nearly got killed multiple times by my boyfriend, who I then had to stop from committing suicide. But hey, you've had to deal with me. It must be so tough."

Ally's chest heaved in fury. "Oxy turns you into such a raging bitch."

"And look at you," Becca snapped with a pasted on smile. "You can be a bitch all on your own."

Ally curled her lips in a snarl. Becca waited for the next biting remark. Bring it. Hot raged had boiled up through all her pores, the hurricane of emotions she'd buried ready to tear into Ally now that it'd been set free.

But instead of lashing out, tears appeared in Ally's eyes. "Call Malena." She turned around. "I'll tell Dave you're not coming in today."

Becca watched Ally's retreat with her mouth open, unprepared for such an abrupt departure. Once her brain caught up, she screamed a "fuck you!" after her once-friend and lobbed the medication bottle Ally had hit her with at the door. She flopped down on her bed, which she instantly regretted as her head throbbed.

Goddamn bitch. Ally knew how much she was dealing with and still she pulled crap like this. She was probably faking the tears for sympathy. Well, if Ally hated being around her so much then she could stay at Danny's apartment from now on. There was only about a week left on their lease anyway.

Becca pulled her pillow to her chest. No point in getting up if Ally was telling her boss she planned on taking a sick day or whatever. And she didn't feel like going to work anyway. She could sleep in and use the rest of the day to work on her portfolio and maybe go hand out some resumes in person. She was definitely _not_ going to call Malena, her sponsor through Narcotics Anonymous.

Or should she? Malena would surely understand the difference between taking medication because of an addiction and taking it for health reasons. Yeah. Malena would prove her right.

She sent a text to Malena asking if she could meet up for lunch, as they had done often in the past. Malena had four kids, which made it difficult to meet up later in the day when she and her husband were juggling afterschool activities.

NA had paired Becca up with Malena because she had begun on the same combination of drugs, Adderall to keep up with her three kids at the time and Oxy for surgery on one of her legs. She had started switching up meds, picking up others recommended by friends. She had been taking nine different medications at the time of her heart attack.

Becca went to the bathroom and had almost fallen asleep when Malena responded to her text. They made plans to meet up at 1:00, and Becca promptly went back to sleep.

She awoke at 12:18 in the afternoon feeling like she always did after sleeping too long on an Oxy binge, like total and complete crap. Her stomach gurgled as she stumbled to her closet, rubbing her eyes. Still better than barely getting any sleep in days. She got dressed, brushed her teeth, and headed out. One of the doors in the hallway clicked open behind her, and Becca sighed. Her ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. shadow would be coming, too. Though truthfully she was grateful for the protection.

The All-Niter was a small diner in downtown Manhattan. A favorite lunch spot of theirs, it was located close enough to the touristy center that the walls were covered in tiny plaques of all the famous guests who had eaten there, but on a quiet enough street that tourists would only stumble upon it by accident, if at all. The diner bustled at lunch, but was never packed. And they had the most amazing selection of pies.

Malena got up from a booth when Becca entered. A robust woman in her forties, she wore the type of high fashion that should look ridiculous off a runway, but her confidence and imposing figure made it all work somehow. Though she was slow to smile and spoke very frankly, she was immensely kind in her way. She hugged Becca lightly and kissed both of her cheeks.

"You've lost weight," Malena noted. "A good thing they've put three new pies on the menu."

Becca grinned. "Guess I know what I'm getting for dessert."

Once they'd settled, a waitress came over to get her drink order. Malena already had a glass of iced tea in front of her, which she stirred lazily with a straw.

"Is this a chance to catch up?" Malena questioned. "Or…?" She always knew when something was up. Becca suspected the talent came as a product of raising a bunch of kids.

"I've started taking Oxy again," she confessed.

Malena's expression didn't change. "Why?"

"I needed to sleep."

Malena took a sip of her iced tea, her eyes never leaving Becca. "Tell me what happened."

"You haven't been following any of the news?"

"News doesn't matter. I want to hear from you."

Becca glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. Even Agent Finch was perusing a menu from her booth across the diner. So she explained what had happened, starting all the way back when she decided to go visit Steve in D.C. She didn't go into detail too often. The bare bones themselves had her on the verge of tears a number of times, and she hated crying in public.

Malena never looked at her with pity or gave the impression of passing judgment. Becca appreciated that about her. She listened without interruption, chewing daintily on her fried chicken while Becca plowed through steak tips between recounting the past months.

They were splitting three slices of pie when Becca finally caught up to her fight with Ally this morning. Malena scraped up a sliver of peach with some vanilla ice cream and worked it around her mouth in silent thought. The ice cream had half melted on the warm pies, but Becca scooped a bit of the still cold portion of creamy goodness. Her throat was sore from talking so much, and the ice cream felt good on the way down.

At last, Malena said, "This isn't like you."

"What isn't?" Becca asked through a mouthful of ice cream.

"You've given up."

She swallowed. "On what?"

Malena waved her forked vaguely. "All of it. Everything. It's too much for one person, and you're tired."

"I don't think I'm giving up," Becca argued. She had been working hard to pull her life back together. "But yes, I'm tired. That's why I needed the Oxy."

"You're taking Oxy because it's the easy. Going back to an addiction is always the easiest option."

This wasn't what Becca had wanted to hear at all. Malena was supposed to understand. "This has nothing to do with my addiction. I physically need the sleep."

"Yes," Malena agreed, head bobbing. "And the escape. But there are many other options, and you are avoiding them. Why? Because you are too proud to ask for help?"

"No," protested Becca. Malena gave one of her I-call-bullshit looks. With an annoyed huff, Becca said, "I don't have money for therapy. Or time."

Malena sniffed. "You have an hour for lunch with me right now. That is time."

"I still don't have money."

"But you have enough to pay for lunch?"

Becca shoved another bite of pie into her mouth and chewed furiously. "I think therapy is a bit more expensive than lunch."

"Your job has insurance, yes?" Malena asked, and Becca grudgingly nodded. "That will cut down the cost. So go, at least once. And apologize to Ally. She's been a good friend to you."

And that was pretty much the end of the conversation because Becca knew she couldn't win. She did technically have time. Not a lot, but enough to make one trip. And honestly she had no idea how much a therapy session would cost. It had seemed more important to put all her money towards her debt rather than going to a therapist. She was being responsible.

Except shirking a day of work wasn't particularly responsible. Or walking around in a haze of nerves or spacing out while in a city that, while she loved it, wasn't the safest place in the world.

Becca walked home, mulling it over. She didn't like that she had to take Oxy. She didn't love the person she was without sleep and running on stress all the time either. She had done things that weren't like her at all. Throwing a heavy frying pan at Tony. Screaming at Ally. Hiding from Steve. Hiding from everything, really. Yeah, okay, she was trying to escape. Her life was shit, and she couldn't deal with it. There. Truth was out. She wasn't coping well. Or really at all. She had insisted that Steve talk to someone. It was kind of hypocritical of her not to go to a therapist, just once.

Back at her apartment, she went on the website for her insurance, checked rates and whether Dr. Rice appeared on the list of providers that the insurance would partially cover. She was, so Becca called the office where Dr. Rice worked alongside five other practitioners. She told the receptionist that she'd been referred by Dr. Delgado, and was informed that there was an opening this coming Thursday evening and it would be $50 for an appointment. With debts to pay, that seemed like a lot to throw at one session, but she sighed and agreed to the time.

Ally didn't come home that night, and Becca wandered the apartment. Eventually, she pulled up Netflix on her laptop and finally fell asleep in the middle of _Hercules_. She didn't see Ally at work the next day or the next, at which point Becca had decided Ally was definitely avoiding her. She would have apologized, but if Ally didn't want to talk to her, fine. Whatever. She had enough on her plate.

The days dragged by, each one a trial, until Thursday. Becca had not factored in transportation, as the therapists' office was outside of the city, and all told she would be paying about $60 for the session and bus fare. She got off the bus and followed Google Maps to the correct office building. A sign on the inside directed her up to the second floor.

The waiting room was half full with six people scattered in chairs. One of the men was missing a leg. A woman sat reading a book, her back rigidly straight and at attention. Another woman twitched anytime someone made any kind of sound. A couple sat side by side holding hands. Becca felt a tug of envy at their obvious closeness. The final man sat tucked in a corner, crying silently. She wasn't sure if the others had seen and ignored him or had been asked to leave him be. She offered him a tissue, which he took, but since he looked annoyed, she decided he wanted to be left alone.

After checking in, Becca took a seat beside the woman reading and pulled out her tablet. She flipped idly through her e-mail, checking for responses to resumes and filtering out all the junk and late fee notices. People drifted in and out. Many had visible scars, others she could tell had scars that ran deeper. No one gave her questioning looks. Apparently she fit right in.

Finally, an older woman with grey hair and very comfy looking clothing came out to get her. She introduced herself as Dr. Andrea Rice and took Becca back to her office. It was nothing like in the movies, where book shelves stuffed with impressive looking texts lined one wall while a big stuffed couch pressed against another with a plush chair for the therapist. This room had a safari theme, long grass stenciling bordering the ceiling, African art hanging on the walls, and various knickknacks scattered about. It was kind of like a kid's themed bedroom all grown up. She supposed many patients probably found the place comforting. The theme was unlikely to connect to anywhere they'd been stationed.

Becca sat on a small loveseat, well worn by years of patient's sitting in her place, and Dr. Rice took the other loveseat so they were on an equal level. Dr. Rice pulled her legs up crisscross and folded her hands. No pad of paper anywhere in sight.

"So Becca," Dr. Rice started. "What brings you here today?"

"Uh, well, I've been through a lot of stuff," said Becca. Understatement. "And I'm finding it kinda hard to function. I haven't been able to sleep much without sleeping aids and I'm very distracted and it's just not a good time all around."

Dr. Rice nodded. "Why don't you tell me about what you've been going through?"

So, for the second time this week, Becca recounted everything. Unlike with Malena, she went into detail. She wanted Dr. Rice to know as much as possible, so that she could get recommendations for how to get better faster. Besides, she found it oddly easier to confide in strangers rather than people she knew. Words and emotions spilled from her in a torrent. She cried, she spat, she raged, she pulled tissues from her purse to dab at her eyes and blow her nose.

Dr. Rice interrupted every once and a while for clarification or to press about a certain detail, but mostly she listened. Not like Malena listened, with her unreadable expression, a steady rock. Becca could see the empathy in Dr. Rice's face – not pity or she might have clammed up – but a sense that Dr. Rice really understood what she felt. Becca needed that, as much as she needed Malena's sharp push.

At the end, Dr. Rice said, "You have gone through an incredible amount of stress. Everything you're experiencing now is completely normal, and you are strong enough that you can absolutely go back to living a more normal life. But as we are almost at the end of our hour, I'd like to take you through a few breathing exercises that might help you falling asleep and whenever you are feeling particularly anxious during the day."

All that and Dr. Rice was giving her breathing exercises? Her frustration must have shown because Dr. Rice pointed out, "There is a lot you've gone through, and we can't unravel it all at once. And you'd be surprised how much it helps to start somewhere small. Like breathing. Next time, you can choose what you'd like to work on. Feeling safe in your home. Feeling in control of your thoughts. Rebuilding your relationships. It's completely up to you."

Still not much, but Becca would take what she could get. She practiced the breathing exercises with Dr. Rice before she was shown out. When the receptionist asked if she would like to schedule another appointment, she said she'd call back. It'd depend on how her finances were looking. And if these breathing exercises did anything. For $50, they'd better.

Agent Finch appeared at the bus stop first, looking over a magazine. Becca nodded an instinctual greeting, which Agent Finch ignored. They stood side by side in silence, joined by a third person and then a fourth right as the bus pulled up.

The rest of her day ended up being a wash. She worked on her portfolio for fifteen minutes and lost focus. Ran the laundry and stood in over the washing machine, her hands pressed to the cold metal because the rattling had frozen her in place. It sounded like gunfire. She remembered finally to breathe. Deep down to her gut, counting in her head. In. One. Two. Three. Hold. And out. One. Two. Three.

Gradually, she relaxed. The breathing had helped. Becca walked shakily away, relieved not to have been trapped. Maybe Dr. Rice was onto something. She couldn't afford to go every week or anything, but once a month or every couple of weeks. She would have decide what to work on. Feeling safe would be amazing. And in control, god, she missed that. Or her relationships.

Steve.

Becca went into her bedroom and took out the scrapbook of his sketches. She wiped off dust and flipped through the pages. She had to come to a decision. Already she had put it off for too long. It wasn't fair to Steve, whether he remembered what she had been to him or not. Either she would be Becca or she would be Becca _and_ Captain America's girlfriend. Was she prepared to deal with the repercussions of that double life? Well, no. Duh. But was their relationship worth it?

She stopped on a sleeve of empty plastic. The Christmas sketch she had brought to the press conference was supposed to go in the sleeve. It must still be at the Avengers Tower, two happy turtledoves abandoned in an empty room. But their beaks would still be curved in smiles, their gazes loving. She wondered whether they could ever be like again after what they had done to each other.

The light dimmed outside as she gazed at that empty sleeve and thought. And thought.

And made a decision.


	20. Who We Are

When the F.B.I. came to talk to him, Steve answered every question they asked. At least the ones he had answers for because some of his time with Hydra had yet to come back to him. The interview lasted for hours, and the agents returned the following day with photographs of M.I.A. soldiers and a sketch artist as they had been unable to identify anyone with the name Claudia Henson.

A week of radio silence went by with him continuing the same routine of meeting with Dr. Delgado and working on physical therapy for his heel. Then, he had a flurry of visitors all within the span of several days. Sam dropped by with a stack of books. They talked about the news, what Sam had been doing in Washington. Normal conversation. His visits were inevitably a nice change of pace, which the exception of one uncomfortable moment.

Sam had been recounting a date he'd gone on when he asked, "How's Becca doing? I'm surprised she hasn't pitched a tent out in the hallway."

A lump wormed its way up through Steve's chest. "I haven't seen her since –" He wasn't sure if Sam knew about his suicide attempt and shame kept him from bringing it up. "Well, not for a long time. Maybe a month?"

"Damn," Sam muttered, his eyebrows lifting. "So are you two…?"

The lump climbed higher, plugging Steve's throat. He has spent a whole lot of time on the part of his journals about Becca, jotting down memories, reordering them. Whenever he was feeling particularly down, those pages beckoned him with the allure of happier times. He would flip through that section, smiling more often than not, until he reached the last memory: Becca fiddling with a roll of tape and looking nervous as she suggested they find an apartment together.

After that memory, he'd left a large blank space, which he did anywhere he knew for certain that something important was missing. In this case, he had yet to recall why he had gone with Hydra – which the F.B.I. agents had implied to be convenient for him, much to Steve's irritation – but when he stared at that blank space, usually he thought of Becca telling him that she wanted to make more good memories. And yet, she had never come back.

Initially, her failure to reappear hadn't bothered him. Steve couldn't see any good reason for Becca to visit the man who had attempted to kill her. She had been so nervous around him. Furthermore, his emotions around her were so tangled that he was too preoccupied trying to make sense of them to consider any new emotions rising in their wake. As he read over his journals and added memories of her, however, his smiles had begun to shrink or grew for a second only to spring back like the snap of a rubber band leaving him stinging. Thinking of Becca hurt him.

"I don't know," Steve replied. "I guess whatever we had, it's probably done."

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. Her loss." To Steve's relief, he moved onto a different topic.

The very next day, Tony Stark came to visit. Steve had several antagonistic memories of Tony, but he also remembered that Tony generally tried to do the right thing. Tony mostly seemed to be checking up on him. He made some offhand remarks about the small room, asked how Steve was doing, and asked a couple of questions testing Steve's memories. He went on to talk about Ms. Majumadar, not appearing particularly pleased about Steve having volunteered his help. So Steve laid out all the reasons why they should give her a second chance, but noted that he would help Ms. Majumadar himself and he had not explicitly promised Tony's aid.

Tony had surveyed him for long moment, his head propped on an arm. "Good to know it's you back in there, Cap. But I bet you wish you could've punched me while you had the excuse."

Steve winced. He had done enough violence against people who hadn't done anything to call for it. "No, I don't. I'm glad you're okay."

Tony's grin twitched and he looked taken aback. "Right." He got up from his chair. "Let me know if you need anything. I've already got you a replacement publicist, since you obviously make bad choices. He's part of a team really. They're for the Avengers. I'll have him fly down. And that lawyer of yours. The one with the glasses."

"Maggie," Steve supplied.

"Yeah. You like her? I can hire her permanently."

"I like her fine, but you don't have to do that."

Tony shrugged. "I'll talk to PR, see what they say. I think the legal team's at seven, and I like eight better. Makes it a nice round number."

This seemed like too much help after all he'd done. "Won't this make the Avengers look bad? Going to bat for me?"

"It's nothing we can't fix. And without you, we're down to five, so."

"Odd number." Steve was grateful that Tony, who he hadn't always seen eye-to-eye with, still believed in him. "Thanks."

Tony flicked his wrist like gratitude was a bad smell he could wave away. "Enjoy this broom closet while you can." He turned to Thor. "All right, He-Man, time to go."

Thor followed Tony out of the room, a private plane waiting at the airport to take them back to New York where Thor's girl Jane was waiting, having recently returned from an extensive research trip in Europe. Steve marked another notch in the amount of trust he had earned because no one left to guard him was much of a match if he decided to make an escape attempt, which he had no intention of doing.

He had less than two days to ponder Tony's ominous last words before Maggie revealed their meaning. The F.B.I. had found Dr. Henson's base. She had abandoned it, set explosives inside and collapsed the whole bunker. The F. B.I. was requesting his presence to explain the layout and look for anything out of place. Maggie had agreed, pending a plea deal. Steve insisted to her that he would go, plea deal or no, but she shoved the papers at him and advised him to sign.

The easiest requirement was a public apology. He would have planned a press conference himself and figured his new publicist would have advised that he hold one in any case.

Harder was a three month minimum stay at a "mental wellness center." After three months, a court- appointed psychologist would decide whether he was ready to be released. He was already going stir crazy in this place. But he knew that the government and everyone else would feel better about having him locked up somewhere, and a sanatorium would often more freedom than jail.

What Steve couldn't agree to was the final stipulation, that upon his release he was not to participate in any safeguarding activities – the deal listed nearly a page of these activities which included everything from hunting down potential global threats to stopping a mugging – unless a fellow Avenger or a law enforcement officer was also present.

"So if I walk by an alley and see someone getting assaulted, I'm supposed to stand there and hope Nat's not too busy to pick up the phone?" he asked, angry at the hypocrisy of the request. This part of the deal might be meant to protect people from him and his choices, but all it would do was allow more people to get hurt.

Maggie regarded him levelly. "Captain America would be expected to alert the authorities or other Avengers and wait, yes."

"Then, I can't sign." Steve flipped the binder shut and offered it back.

"I think it's a really good deal, Steve. All you have to do is sign your name, and you won't find the conditions as harsh as you might think." Maggie pushed the binder back towards him, lips curving in a smile like they were in on a private joke.

Certain he had missed something, Steve opened the binder again and glanced over the page he had last read.

 _IX. In the event of the occurrence of any of the following situations, Captain America may not act of his own discretion unless…_

He flipped back through the pages, reading over the restrictions that Captain America would have to follow. Captain America, but not necessarily Steve Rogers. Maggie, and perhaps others who had drafted the deal, had left him a loophole.

Steve grinned. "Has Tony talked to you?"

"Who do you think is paying for you to go toGreen Valley for three months?" Maggie laughed. "But if you're referring to the job offer, your legal future is now in my hands. So try not to give me too much trouble."

"I can pay for going –"

"Not unless you want to come out with barely a penny to your name, you can't. Like most public servants, you were being egregiously underpaid." Maggie flipped through her own papers. "Which reminds me, I have a couple more things for you to sign. Mr. Desjardin is settling instead of suing you over the incident with his son, and Mr. Stark already put up the money. And you'll be happy to know Ms. Majumadar is currently under protection and will soon be relocated." She held out a couple more sheets of paper. "I'll send Mr. Stark a nice bottle of wine on your behalf."

Steve took the papers. He thought arguing at this point wouldn't accomplish much of anything. "I remember him drinking scotch. I'll ask Sam to get my piggy bank and see if I saved enough quarters for a bottle. I even have a whole dollar in there from a holiday bonus."

Maggie shook her head. "And this is exactly why I'm glad we didn't have to put you in court."

With the necessary documents signed, the F.B.I. came to pick him up. Dr. Delgado accompanied them for, according to him, emotional support. Steve thought it more likely the F.B.I. was worried that he would have some kind of mental break or regress to a Hydra solider again once near the bunker.

He did feel different as they drove up the familiar road, but not a return to the vast emptiness and clarity of mind he had as a soldier for Hydra. Instead, he grew tense, as though they were moving towards a battlefield. The neck of his neck tingled. His lungs took in less air.

Trees gave way to open land, and for a second Steve saw the old ranch house. Soldiers ran exercises in the field until a command had them in formation as they jogged towards the bunker behind the house. The image faded, leaving decimation. The house was gone, as was the bunker behind it. Scorched wood and concrete had been moved into piles with construction equipment sitting quiet in the midst of their work. Agents were scattered about the area, less than he had expected. The majority must have come and gone, or the F.B.I. was being cautious with him.

Steve got out of the car and stood on his crutches, taking in the scene. He had left this place with the intent to kill Becca or die trying. He had been a man made into a killing machine. As he bleakly gazed over the land, he wondered if this was how Bucky felt, whether his friend looked at a place, remembered the terrible things he had done, and felt sick.

"This way, Captain," an agent beckoned, and a tingle ran up his spine.

"Steve?" Dr. Delgado had come to stand beside him. "Do you still want to go through with this?"

Steve pulled together his resolve and nodded. He owed this to every person whose life he had stolen from them and every family he had pulled apart.

The ranch house he dismissed immediately when an agent asked. He had never seen anyone go inside. It had merely served as a front for the bunker. He moved over to the bunker, or what was left. The foundation had remained mostly intact. Large cracks mapped out where bombs had been placed on the floors. Some of the walls still stood, but not whole. Patches had crumbled or been blown away.

The stairs were serviceable. Steve descended down them to what had been the main hall, where he had stood in line with the other soldiers to give reports. He looked left and clenched his jaw as fear stroked his chest like a cruel mistress welcoming him home. He took the accompanying agents towards the right.

The right half of the bunker contained the rooms used most by the soldiers. He pointed out the mess hall and showers, reiterating the daily routine they had been expected to go through. The agents stopped him to go more thoroughly through the room where he had run mental exercises. When Steve described how the room had looked, he got the impression from the agents' reactions that most of the equipment had been taken before the explosions, but he did identify pieces of the table with the screen that had been in the center. He walked around the perimeter and paused at a metal loop sticking out of one wall. A woman had been bound there. He remembered her tears, and the loud snap of her neck. When he asked, the agents told him she remained unidentified.

They stopped in the sleeping barracks next. Large gouges had been carved into the floor, the pavement split wide like Hell itself had opened in recognition of the private hell in which the men and women who slept here had lived. Steve spotted a red patch after a single step. The barracks had been kept impeccably clean, and the red stood out jarringly against the whites, blacks, and greys. Once he saw the first patch, more leapt out at him, splattered along every surface. He crouched over the nearest stain.

"Were there bodies?" he questioned.

"Sixteen," an agent responded. "All in this room."

Steve thought of the soldiers who had stayed behind on the last mission. He counted them up, sure even before he did that their number would add up to sixteen. The doctors and Henson had escaped, but the soldiers were too much of a liability. He touched the blood and added the death toll to his conscience. There would have been no need to move if not for him.

"We thought they might have been drugged," the agent confided. "Or killed and then put here to make sure the explosion got them."

"That wouldn't have been necessary," Steve informed her, standing up. "If Dr. Henson told them to stay on their beds, they would have sat and watched her light the fuse."

Sadness burned into anger. Dr. Henson would be brought to justice if he had to spend the next fifty years of his life tracking her down. He shouldered past the agents and Dr. Delgado, who eyed him with concern, and doubled back down the hallway.

New memories came in flickers as he took the small group around, but old memories made him keep a particular room for last. Steve hesitated in the empty door frame as sweat gathered on his neck and trickled down his back. He pushed himself into the room, fighting the urge to back away from the phantom licks of pain across his scalp.

This was the room where Dr. Henson had taken everything from him, electrifying and freezing it away. He hoped the machines had been blasted to pieces, but figured Dr. Henson had taken most of them with her to start fresh elsewhere. His crutches tapped on the floor, sending up clouds of dust as he faced the corner where he had been strapped down. He could hear his screams echoing off the walls.

"So what was this room for?" an agent asked.

Steve couldn't answer right away, and when he did, his voice was gravelly. "This is where Dr. Henson made her soldiers."

The pain seared through his mind, a hundred times worse than the serum, and he had endured it over and over again. There must have been a reason for his pain. People had died, and with them a part of him. His hands shook as they tightened around his crutches. Behind him, Dr. Delgado quietly asked the agents to give them a moment.

He needed there to be a reason.

"Steve," said Dr. Delgado gently. "What do you remember?"

He shook his head.

"You know what I've noticed?" Dr. Delgado asked. When Steve looked at him, he continued, "Apart from the day of your attempted suicide, you haven't shared anything that's really troubling you. Whenever we talk, you share the mundane parts, but the rest you've kept to yourself. Now, I'm not saying you have to share all of your deepest, darkest secrets, but if you don't tell me some of what's bothering you, then I can't help. And I want to help."

Steve heaved out a breath. And here he had thought Dr. Delgado hadn't caught on. He didn't mean any offense by it. Sharing the hard stuff seemed wrong to him. He had struggled to do it with Becca, and with anyone less close than she had been, it was even harder. This small inch though, he could try.

"I just wish I could remember why I agreed to join Hydra," he admitted. "There was a lot of pain in this room. It had to be worth something, didn't it?"

Dr. Delgado inclined his head. "I'm sure it wasn't a choice you made lightly."

Steve stared at the corner, imaging the chair and the doctors surrounding him. After many torturous sessions, he had learned to be afraid of this room, even when he didn't exactly know why. The sense of wrongness lingered around the door, his brain holding faint marks no amount of electricity could erase, giving him a chill the blessedly few times he had to pass the threshold.

Yet, he hadn't always felt that way. Once he had looked at the chair and dread had scribbled a fresh mark on him. He found that moment, the sketch he was missing, and fought desperately to follow the lines backwards towards their origin point. He took in the room around him, allowing the horror of this place seep into him, but refusing to let it to pull him under. He traced his steps back. The chair. The doorway. Dr. Henson sitting in the main hall.

The memory crested over him. He had been sure that people would come for him, that he would see them and fight the hold Hydra had on him, as Bucky had in the end. And Dr. Henson had threatened Sam; there had been a gunman. But above all, his concern had lain with one person because she meant more to him than anything.

Somehow Dr. Delgado recognized the change. "You remembered."

"Becca," Steve breathed, feeling like he should have known all along. "There are other reasons too, but mostly it was for her. They were gonna shoot her, and I couldn't let that happen."

"Of course. You loved her."

Another truth whispered across his skin, brushing away the cruel touch of phantom pain. "I still do."

Knowing the reason for what he had done came as an enormous relief. Steve was sure anyone would be shocked to hear him said that aloud. Captain America was supposed to put the people first, and more deaths had resulted from this than lives saved. But even if it was selfish and he felt guilty about those who got caught in the crossfire, unless the entirety of the world rested in the balance, he would put those he cared about first every time. If another Hydra member had come in right this second with a gun to Becca's head, he would have strapped himself into the machine and let them wipe his mind all over again.

Not that Becca could ever know. She would be horrified to hear that people had died because he had tried to save her. He had a vivid memory of her crying over accidently shooting a Hydra agent. But what saddened him too was a feeling that Becca would never consider for a moment that he would make the choice to save her first.

Either way, Steve supposed it didn't matter. She wasn't coming back. He had wasted so much time he could have spent crowding his head with more memories of her. Nights he had spent in his D.C. apartment because it was more convenient. Searching out the next mission on flights home, even when other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents could complete them just as well. Avoiding her attempts to get closer because he didn't want to tell her something as simple as the jokes about his age were starting to get to him. He'd been an idiot who realized too late that his best girl needed more attention than he was giving, and his promise to spend more time with her would go unfulfilled.

At least he had done one thing right by her.

"I'm not sorry about the choice I made," he confessed aloud and sighed. "But that doesn't change the fact that a lot of innocent people are dead because of me."

Dr. Delgado considered him. "Your friend Bucky, would you say that a lot of innocent people are dead because of him?"

Steve frowned. "That's different."

"Why? Because he killed more people?"

He wasn't sure why, only that Bucky was not to blame. "It's not his fault."

"And neither are those deaths yours," said Dr. Delgado firmly. "You need to put down that cross, Steve. It's not yours to bear. I want you to say this. 'Nothing I did was my fault. It was Hydra's.'"

Steve scoffed, but when Dr. Delgado waited, he reluctantly mumbled, "Nothing I did was my fault. It was Hydra's."

"Like you mean it."

"Nothing I did was my fault," Steve repeated, snapping momentarily into the voice of a soldier responding to their commanding officer. "It was Hydra's."

"Good. And you're going to say that every morning until you really do mean it."

Dr. Delgado followed through on the order. When Steve confessed the next day to not having repeated the words, the shrink made him do three repetitions. He felt ridiculous about the whole affair, a school kid having to learn a lesson by rote, until he noticed that he didn't feel quite so guilty when reading over his memories about Hydra. Because he wasn't a soldier claiming he had just been following orders. He truly had no control. And perhaps he could learn to accept that the burden of responsibility laid Hydra a bit more every day that until his regrets vanished.

All except one.

* * *

Becca started small.

After leaving a voicemail with Dr. Delgado, she took the empty bottle of Oxy from the drawer in her desk. The label invited her to try calling the pharmacy and weaseling a refill. She ripped it up and threw the scraps in the toilet. Giving up the sleep aid wouldn't be that easy, but she was taking baby steps in eliminating the temptation.

She played phone tag with Dr. Delgado during work the following day until he caught her in the evening. Apparently, she wasn't the only one moving this weekend. They spoke briefly and came to an agreement.

Her parents arrived early the next morning to help her move out of her apartment. Becca had been living there with Ally for the past three years, and as the rooms began to empty, she realized just how much she would miss it. Couch surfing was going to be rough.

Ally showed up halfway through the day with Danny and her friend Mark. It was all Becca could do not to leap on her the second she arrived. As much as she was still kind of annoyed that Ally had been avoiding her, Becca missed having her friend around more. She spent a couple of minutes piling blu-rays into a plastic crate before saying, "Hey. Can we talk for a sec?"

Ally offered no immediate emotion, but she did follow Becca into her bedroom. Becca slid the door most of the way shut with her foot.

"I'm sorry I blew up at you," she apologized. "I know you were worried about me, and I haven't been the easiest person to be around. I'm trying to be more proactive about getting better."

Ally pursed her lips. "But no more pills?"

Becca nodded. "No more pills."

With a sigh, Ally stepped forward and hugged Becca tight. "That's what I wanted to hear. Could've done with a little more groveling of course, but I suppose we can be friends again."

"You're too kind."

First step, check. Second step, check. The third step would be the hardest of the three, though.

Becca drove with her parents to their house and assisted in moving all her stuff into the basement, except the two duffle bags she would be living out of for the next month minimum. After dinner, she took a cat nap on the guest bed (in what had originally been her bedroom) and woke panting from a nightmare when an alarm went off in the early hours. Either her mom or dad had left a choice of bagels or muffins on the counter. She heated a bagel, filled up a travel mug with coffee, and packed two cranberry muffins to-go.

The drive was long, but fortunately consisted of very little traffic. The closeness of other cars pressed around her brought on surges of anxiety, as this was only the fifth time Becca had driven a car since her accident. Her nerved ebbed and flowed with the cars until she grew steadily closer to the tiny complex where Steve had been staying. By then, her nerves were practically pressing through her skin.

A guard jogged up to her car as she approached, and she had to show her driver's license, which Becca wasn't exactly sure made for the tightest security. But the guard took out a scanner for her finger prints, an addition since her visit with Devika over a month ago. She passed the scan and was allowed to park in the line of cars on the left side of the building.

For a moment, Becca sat still, the engine vibrating the car around her. If she wanted, she could drive away and Steve would never be any the wiser. She turned the key and stuffed it into her purse, which went over her shoulder as she scooped up the (mostly) full container of cookies and brownies. The baked goods had been her mom's idea. She hadn't told either of her parents about her brushes with death at Steve's hands. They called up to fuss over her enough already, and all the knowledge would do was create more drama that she really didn't need.

Her purse had to be left at the door along with her phone, like last time, but the food container was allowed through. Dr. Delgado waited on the other side of the security checkpoint. He had sounded pleasantly surprised at her call and greeted her warmly now. She opened the container so he could take a cookie.

Dr. Delgado hadn't been able to tell her much because of doctor-patient confidentially, but he did say that Steve had been improving and was being moved to a mental health clinic. Becca thought that sounded like a good change. Certainly better than jail. Or even this tiny, hospital-esque place. If Steve had become anything like the old Steve, he would be going bonkers cooped up in the one room he had here.

Once last year when Steve had come home for a long weekend, she planned to spend a day marathoning Clint Eastwood films with him. They had made it through three and a half movies before she could tell he was getting antsy and decided to put that energy to good use. The credits had been rolling when they picked up the trail of clothing leading from her bedroom back to the couch, and they spent the rest of the day on a long motorcycle ride where they pulled off on random exits to see what they stumbled across. While she would have been perfectly content spending all day binging on movies, she was happy to go out on "adventures" with Steve.

Becca thought of that day, how they had managed to have fun in the most mundane places, and smiled. They had been great together. Dysfunctional at times, but everyone had problems. If they could find adventure in an abandoned parking lot, cracking jokes as they rested against the warm pavement and finding shapes in the clouds that passed over the stars, then they could find the best in any situation. That was the hope, anyway.

Lingering doubts nibbled at her resolve as Dr. Delgado stopped in front of Steve's door. What if she couldn't learn to be around Steve again? What if the pressure of being Miss America was way too much? What if he insisted they break up to protect her or something eye-rollingly self-sacrificing like that? Or what if Steve didn't love her anymore?

"I know you can't tell me anything Steve said," Becca acquiesced, holding the container of baked goods pressed to her breast. "But… do you think we still have a chance?"

Dr. Delgado gave her a pat on the arm. "That is entirely up to yourself and Steve." He lifted a finger. "But. I think every couple has a chance as long as both participants are willing to put in the work."

Becca chewed her lip. All she could do was try.

"Would you like someone to accompany you?" Dr. Delgado asked. "Thor left for New York this past week, and since Steve's been cooperative, I haven't felt the need to leave a guard in his room."

Her nerves wriggled at the thought of being alone with him. She had expected Thor to be here. But, what, were they going to have a chaperone for the rest of their lives? Well, Agent Finch was probably parked somewhere nearby, but Becca would prefer not being followed for the rest of forever. Since Dr. Delgado trusted Steve, she would too.

"No, that's fine."

Dr. Delgado smiled and knocked on the door. "Go ahead."

Becca reached for the handle and opened the door slowly. She hadn't spoken to Steve in a month, and so wasn't sure of the reaction she would get. Maybe he wouldn't care at all. Somehow that seemed like the worst possible outcome. She poked her head around the edge of the door.

Steve was propped on the bed with a book in hand. He seemed healthier than when she'd last seen him. The stubble had been cleaned from his face, and the markers of stress had cleared up. When his eyes met hers, his expectant expression turned to shock. Becca slipped into the room, feeling guilty. He hadn't expected her to return. The door clicked shut behind her. Fear rose at the sound but she forced it back down.

"Hi."

Obviously at a loss for words, Steve didn't reply. He looked her over like he anticipated she'd disappear in a cloud of smoke.

Becca took another step into the room. "So it's been a while."

A pause, and then he murmured, "You came back."

Briefly, Becca considered saying that of course she came back. Never had she doubted their relationship for a moment. But if they were going to rebuild what they had, she refused to have the foundation built on her lies.

"Honestly, I wasn't positive I was gonna come back. I needed some time."

Steve nodded like he accepted her reasoning. He probably did. Clearly he would have accepted if she never showed her face around him again. Taking time off _had_ been necessary, but his complete acceptance made her want to sink through the floor regardless.

As though food could make up for the rift, Becca thrust out the container of baked goods. "Here. My mom and I made you brownies and cookies. And you'd better eat them all 'cause you're looking less muscle-y than usual."

Steve's mouth twitched into a small grin. "Yes, ma'am." He reached for the container, but she stood too far away. His grin wavered at the awkwardness of the space between them. Setting his book aside, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for crutches leaning against the wall.

With the boot on his right leg, Becca didn't want to make him get up. She closed the distance, her spine straightening with each step while her feet told her to turn around. She ignored them and deposited the container into his hands, conscious she was avoiding actual physical contact.

Surely Steve noticed as well, but he didn't comment on it. He opened the container and picked out a snickerdoodle. "They're good. Thanks," he commented after a bite.

Becca nodded, allowing her gaze to drift over the room. Barren as before, but he had some of the art from his old apartment leaned next to a packed back with a set of journals on top. "Are those for sketching?"

Steve shook his head. "They're for my memories, to help organize them."

"Oh. Can I see?" she questioned, and immediately realized that was a fairly intrusive thing to ask.

But Steve waved her on, so after a second of hesitation, she picked up one of the journals. She quickly figured this would be the most recent memories because the second page had a description of attending the opening of new collection at the Met featuring art from the Depression. She was both amazed at the details he remembered and saddened by how fractured they were, question marks appearing frequently.

She stopped on a page, puzzling over a short description.

 _I'm in a dining car with Becca. She's holding up a glass of wine and smiling. There is snow outside the window._

"What?" Steve asked.

"This." Becca turned the journal around, pointing to the spot. "I think maybe this belongs somewhere else because unless dining car means something in your old-timey slang besides a food car on a train, this wasn't me. Or maybe it's a dream?"

Steve eyed the page pensively, his brow wrinkled. "I don't remember writing this."

She shouldn't have said anything. God, she opened her big trap, fussing over this tiny detail that didn't even matter. "It's okay. Don't worry about it." Becca flipped the journal closed and set it back with the others, but Steve still looked troubled.

So Becca took his hands. She didn't mean to. It just happened, and Steve blinked up at her startled. Her skin prickled at the contact, but she held on. Fuck her fear. She could manage to touch her boyfriend for all of a minute when he needed the reassurance. "I know your past is important to you, but the future is just as important, okay? Because I'll be in it with you." She squeezed his hands lightly. "I needed time because there was a lot to take in, and I mean a _lot_. I wasn't really sure if I was up for the whole Miss America gig after what happened. And I wasn't really sure if I could be around you either. And I'm still not one-hundred percent sure."

Becca bit the corner of her lip and took a breath. "But I do know that I don't want to throw away what we had without a fight." She glanced at the floor. "Now, maybe you don't remember loving me, but that's okay. If you wanted, I thought maybe we could start over. Go on a date. I mean, after you come home, obviously."

She would have rambled on, if Steve hadn't interrupted. "I remember."

"Hm?" She looked up, and her breath caught at the emotion shining in Steve's eyes.

"I love you."

Becca smiled. She had to. How could she not when she was so goddamned relieved? Their love meant enough that Steve had remembered it. That was plenty to build on. Their romance might be crazy at times, dangerous, annoying, odd. They were similar in some ways, but two very different people in a lot of others from two very different worlds. But as long as they balanced each other out, they could be good together. They could be almost perfect.

Steve pressed, "But are you sure after everything, that you still want –"

"Oh, don't even start," Becca huffed and prodded his chest. "I'm staying. Because I'm too freaking stubborn to give up on you." She shrugged a shoulder, though her tone carried none of the casualness of the gesture, "And I love you, too."

Steve's expression smoothed. He ran a thumb gently over the back of her hand. "Then we'll be all right."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So this is the last official chapter! Obviously Steve and Becca still have a lot to work through, so I will see you for the wrap up in the epilogue next week.**

 **(darkavenger: I agree that all the memories coming back would definitely be harder in a lot of ways than not having any memories. That's why Steve is going to need a bit of time and some support to work through them. But he has definitely been through plenty already and still manages to make it through the day.)**


	21. Epilogue

Ninety-four days after he had checked in to Green Valley Center for Mental Wellness, Steve boarded a plane flying to New York. The court appointed psychologist had given approval for his release on Monday, and he had been waiting on all the necessary paperwork to go through. His things had been gathered and packed since speaking to the psychologist. He was grateful for the support of the staff and many of the residents – a handful seemed not to trust him, which he took in stride – but he was more than ready to leave. All of this calm drove him around the bend. Peace and quiet made for a nice change sometimes, but three months (four counting his stay in the isolated holding facility prior to Green Valley) was more than enough. He spent half of his days in the gym and, once his damaged heel could hold his weight, running around the backyard just to get out his pent up energy.

There had been some good Steve felt he'd accomplished at Green Valley. Dr. Verne, the shrink he'd been assigned, was as helpful and patient as Dr. Delgado had been in sorting through the memories that continued to come to him. It took him about half his stay to be able to admit to a few of the harder memories. Not all, but some. He couldn't talk about the darkest ones – the squelch and snap of General Alexander's neck as he cleaved it in two, Becca writhing against him as he attempted to smother her. Honestly, he didn't plan on continuing therapy after leaving. Though he figured that a couple of sessions had been necessary, he didn't think it was for him.

However, what he was most grateful for when it came to Dr. Verne was her guidance in rebuilding his relationship with Becca. Although Becca was real busy between her two jobs and volunteering with Narcotics Anonymous, she made a little time to see a shrink of her own and both she and Steve had given written consent for their shrinks to confer.

Dr. Verne had set forth three goals for them. One, he needed to learn how to manage his guilt about Becca. Two, Becca needed to learn to trust him again. Three, they both needed to work on their communication and accepting support from their partner. Steve had thought having clear cut goals and exercises to work on would pave a smooth road for him to follow, but his and Becca's relationship had been damaged in ways that only time and effort would fix, not to mention they had to fight through issues which had previously existed unaddressed.

On occasion they could laugh about it.

Dr. Verne had suggested that they should be honest about how they were feeling, and Becca had been told the same. When Becca had called him to Skype after a group therapy session that had left him particularly tense and asked how he was, Steve had responded, "All right. How are you?"

"Fine," Becca had responded immediately. There had been a pause, and then she started to giggle, at which he had to grin. "God, it's really a reflex, isn't it?"

Mostly going through an exercise wasn't so simple. Becca visited once a month – due to cost of travel and her schedule – and the first time she had come, Dr. Verne had them sit facing each other and holding hands. She told them to maintain eye contact but not speak for ten minutes, and left them alone. Steve expected one or both of them to crack a smile, and he nearly made a remark just to ease the tension in Becca's shoulders. But after a minute, Becca's hands began to tremble. Panic rose in her eyes. She bit down hard on her bottom lip like she was holding back a gasp. Guilt crushed down on him and he made to pull his hands away, but Becca tightened her grip. He had felt so undeserving of her persistence. If he got up and left, she would have nothing to be afraid of anymore. When Dr. Verne came back in the room, she gave them a box of tissue because by the end of those ten minutes they had been crying and he wasn't sure who had started first.

But although it was no picnic at times, Steve knew their relationship was improving, for which he was glad because between finding himself again and finding Becca, he would have picked her. She was the most important part of his life and the single good aspect of his stint as a Hydra assassin was that he finally had the chance to prove it.

The plane touched down in John F. Kennedy International Airport. Steve pulled his baseball cap and sunglasses down from an overhead compartment and put them on to avoid recognition. He picked up his bag from the baggage claim before making his way through security. He nudged down his sunglasses so the customs agent could get a look at him as she glanced over his passport.

The agent did a double-take, and he tensed, unsure of her reaction. But as she handed him back his passport, she whispered, "Welcome back, Cap."

Steve nodded with relief. "Thanks. You have a good day, ma'am."

He walked out to where people waited for their friends and families. Becca caught his attention at once by waving frantically. He could tell she had put extra effort into her appearance today, doing up her hair and wearing brilliant red lipstick. He strode over to her. Though it was difficult, he tried to make a conscious effort not to touch Becca unless she did so first, but she wrapped him right up in a hug.

"How's it feel to be home?"

Returning her hug and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, Steve felt home, though Becca would've teased him about being sappy if he said so.

"Well, you know," he replied instead. "I don't think I'll feel quite home until I have twenty people knocking into me on the sidewalk and nearly get run over by a taxi."

Becca let go of him, laughing. "That comes next. Oh." She dug through her purse and pulled out a manila envelope folded in two. "My parents came for a surprise visit on Wednesday, and my mom gave me this for you."

Steve took the envelope. He had been expecting it, and when Molly had called to let him know everything was all set, he had promised to take everyone out to dinner next time they came to town, which would likely be soon. "Thank you."

"She was being very vague about what's inside," Becca noted, peering curiously at the envelope as he tucked it into his bag.

"Mmm."

Her eyebrow lifted. "Aren't we not supposed to be keeping secrets?"

"We're allowed to keep secrets so long as we know they're not hurting anyone," he countered. "But this isn't a secret exactly."

"Tch. A suspiciously plain envelope that I had to pass from my mom to you without knowing the contents isn't a secret."

Since there was an undercurrent of irritation in her comment, Steve allowed, "It's a surprise."

The irritation became an astonished look. "An adventure?" Becca guessed.

He shrugged a shoulder. "Sort of."

They left the airport and headed down to an AirTrain and then to the subway. Becca kept glancing at his bag as though she might be able to read through the fabric and envelope, but she didn't probe him for clues. Steve asked her about work and the latest friend she had been staying with to keep her mind off the envelope as much as possible.

When she got up to leave the subway car for the hotel he had mentioned over text, Steve beckoned her to sit back down. They were heading right to the surprise. An exchange of subway cars later, they got off in Greenwich Village. He had never been to where they were headed, but had looked over a map and Molly described the street to be safe. And so had Becca.

Steve stopped them in the middle of a sidewalk. "Close your eyes." Becca surveyed him uncertainly, making him realize it was a lot to ask. "Only if you want."

He could see the resolve tighten in her gaze. "I trust you," she said and closed her eyes.

His heart swelled. It meant a lot to hear that from her. "I'm gonna put my arm around you, all right?"

"Okie dokes."

Gingerly, Steve put his arm around Becca's waist. She didn't so much as flinch. He led her down another block, going slow so she wouldn't trip, and turned onto a side street. Two blocks later he pulled out the envelope. Inside were photocopied pages and originals, some of which he had already seen. There were also two sets of keys. He talked Becca up a series of steps and unlocked and opened the door for her. They rode up an elevator to the sixth floor of the building and made their way down a hallway where he used a second key to unlock the door.

"All right. You can open your eyes," he allowed.

Becca's eyes blinked open. She glanced around, momentarily confused, but Steve could see the exact second she recognized where she was.

A month back, Becca had brought up to him that she would still like to get a shared apartment if he wanted. And Steve did want to. Their plan was that he could move in first and Becca would join when she was ready, but they decided to start looking immediately because finding a decent place in New York could be real tough. It had taken Ally and her boyfriend over two months to find somewhere. Becca had tagged along on some of their apartment viewings and gone to others on her own as well. She sent him the listings and took pictures so they could discuss their options.

When they first started, their price range had been low since Becca was catching up on her debt and he was currently unemployed. Then he glanced at his bank account one day and saw that Tony had deposited money into it. He called up to politely, but firmly say that he didn't need a hand out for no good reason, but Tony informed him it was a paycheck in advance. Being an Avenger was about to become a full time job between doing press events and tracking down Hydra. With the certainty of actual work to be done, Steve had accepted the money and bumped up the price range.

Becca had been glowing when she talked about this apartment. The asking price was towards the top of their price range, but surprisingly fair for the location. He had told her to go ahead and put down the money; he would transfer his part to her bank account. She had called glumly two days later. The asking price and rent had gone up because the laundry room and top deck were being renovated. They kept looking, but nothing fell into place and Becca had never lit up over a prospective buy like the apartment in Greenwich.

With that in mind, Steve had contacted his new press agent and asked to be sent offers for paid appearances that he had turned down or Devika hadn't told him about, and considered getting a second job as Becca had. As it happened, there were a number of offers that might still be good, and to his surprise, new ones as well. So he called up Molly for help and got the apartment.

"But…" Becca said, the excited gleam in her eyes fading. "We can't afford this place."

"Well, I've got some extra money coming in," Steve confided as he, being inside, dropped his hat and sunglasses on top of his bag.

"Really?" She frowned at him. "From what?"

"The History Channel is doing a series on the War that I'll be interviewed on. I'm meeting with a few people to talk about possibly sponsoring their products. Mostly kids' stuff, but the hospital where they did surgery on my heel asked if I'd be on a billboard or two."

Becca nibbled pensively on her lip. "I don't want you to feel like you're selling out or something."

"I don't. I'm not agreeing to anything I can't stand behind. And besides, there was one offer I knew I couldn't pass up."

Steve searched through his bag for e-mails he had printed out at Green Valley. He found what he was looking for – fifteen pages total paper clipped together – and handed them over to Becca, who flipped through them gradually at first, but soon faster, devouring the words with her mouth hanging open.

One of the offers Steve had come across had given him pause. Not because Devika had never forwarded it, but because a name had jumped out of the page at him. He remembered Becca pulling up Netflix and saying, "Now, you know I don't normally like violent movies, but Quentin Tarantino is a _master_." He asked his press agent to reach out and see if he could get a look at the script for _Inglorious Bastards_ , whether they were even still filming, and finally whether Becca might be an extra if he agreed to shoot two short scenes as Captain America. The answer to all three had been yes.

"We'd have to be on set next Thursday," Steve informed her as she flipped back to the first page, reading it again. "They'll fly us out to Germany and then to France. It'll be four days. I didn't commit you to anything in case you can't get off work, but mphmf."

Becca had yanked him down and pressed her lips against his. She hadn't kissed him like this since before Hydra. A quick peck on the cheek was as much as he had gotten. Steve didn't mind. He understood she needed time. But hell if he didn't feel like the luckiest guy in the world when she kissed him. He was so glad to have her back.

* * *

She was going to be in a Quentin Tarantino movie! Becca couldn't even believe it. She nearly pinched herself.

Steve had done this for her. No way would he have picked out _Inglorious Bastards_ for his own amusement. And he had got the apartment she wanted, the one she had held every other apartment she'd toured up to and found them lacking. And he had been trying so hard to be a better boyfriend and be patient about her nerves.

Those nerves had gotten better. Slowly, she was learning to trust Steve again. Dr. Rice had been a big help. Becca liked her a lot and planned to keep seeing her for awhile yet, maybe bringing Steve along for a check in if he was okay with it. She had already asked Dr. Rice, and she said that would be fine; she was used to seeing couples.

Giving up Oxy again had been tough, but she checked in with Malena and volunteered once a week with NA to remind her why she had quit in the first place. Couch surfing for months hadn't been much of a walk in the park either, but apartment hunting had given her the promise of relief in the near future. Once they had found a place, she had planned on taking it gradually, spending one night after a week or so, but she was pretty sure Steve wouldn't be offended if she absolutely couldn't stand another night crashing on someone's couch and slept on the couch in their apartment instead. If anything, it would be a fight over who slept in the bed and who slept on the couch.

And the freedom of having her own place was so much closer than she had thought. Ugh, she was so happy not to have to worry about apartment hunting. Plus, Steve was back. Plus, she was going to be in a Taran-fucking-tino movie.

The kiss came spontaneously. She had been avoiding one, initially because she had been too nervous to get that physically close, but after because it felt like a complete commitment and she had been afraid they'd hit an insurmountable wall that neither therapy or their own stubbornness could knock down. But she knew for certain now that they were stuck together, for better and worse. They weren't all fixed, but they were happy together most of the time and they wanted what was best for each other.

And that was enough.

Becca poured all her gratitude and happiness into the kiss and felt Steve return it twofold. His arms wrapped around her waist. Something fluttered nervously in her chest like a startled bird. She acknowledged that part of her was afraid, but the rest was content and so overwhelmed her nerves.

She pulled back, smiling at Steve's soft look, and kissed him quickly again as excitement fizzed back up. "Come on," she beckoned, taking his hand. "Let me show you around."

They went from room to room. With only four rooms including the bathroom, it shouldn't have taken that long, but Becca animatedly explained her imaginings about what the rooms would look like furnished – his things, her things, and the things they would still need to buy (when they had the money, of course.) Steve let her ramble on, offering up his own opinion once and a while, but looking content for the most part to let her lay out her plans until something struck her.

"Oh my god, I totally forgot!" Becca exclaimed in the middle of her thoughts on which of his art pieces were bedroom-worthy. She tugged the tablet out of her purse and pulled up the internet. "I have a surprise for you, too. I was going to show you at the hotel, but then… Okay… I hope this is still… Yes." She put the tablet into Steve's hands.

When they had Skyped on Wednesday morning, Steve had mentioned a press conference he would he holding this upcoming Monday during which he planned to make a public apology. She got the sense as he talked about it that he thought a lot of people were still mad at him, and rightly so. She didn't like that he thought the world would be pissed about something that was not his fault at all and had been a terribly awful experience. As she pondered what to do about it, an idea had come to her.

When she was riding the subway towards the airport, she had sent out a tweet.

 _cptrgs is coming home today! Let's show him some love #welcomehomecap_

Becca had forced herself not to look at her phone again until she was in the airport. To her delight, her tweet already had a ton of likes and reblogs as well as a number of people who had picked up the hashtag. She had checked right before the plane had landed and the hashtag was trending. When she handed her tablet over to him, it was still trending worldwide.

She glanced up at Steve as he scrolled through some of the posts. She didn't think this was quite as good as a new apartment and a Tarantino movie, but Steve might have disagreed because he seemed touched. Ten bonus girlfriend points for her. Becca leaned against his arm and read some of the tweets. Ah, there was one from Tony. Oooo, Lady Gaga. The White House? She lifted an eyebrow. That was impressive.

Steve let out a shaky breath and looked at her. "You did this."

Becca shrugged. "I got the ball rolling. Everyone else picked it up. The world's happy to have you back."

He leaned down and placed a kiss on her temple. "As long as you're happy, that's all that matters." She flushed, pleased. "But this is nice. I'll send out a thank you later."

"It'll give you something to do at the hotel tonight."

Steve shook his head. "I'm gonna be staying here."

"What?" Becca said. Was he sleeping on the floor without a pillow or anything? "Don't you want to wait until we go get your bed? Or I'm sure Sam wouldn't mind meeting us halfway. I can probably borrow a car off someone."

"He's coming by tomorrow. I'll be all right until then."

So he _was_ going to be sleeping on the floor. Becca rubbed her foot on the hardwood. She was sure he had slept on the ground during the war, but still. They had made a pillow fort once and he hadn't seemed too comfortable then. She had a pillow, sleeping bag, and blanket she had been bringing around. It wouldn't be much of a sacrifice to give them up for a night. Or maybe…

"I have some stuff, and – and I could stay tonight," Becca offered.

Steve eyed her, his brown knit with uncertainty. "You don't have to."

"I want to." She wanted to try in any case. "I have a sleeping bag. If we lay it out flat, and then use the blanket. I do only have one pillow, but I think I could borrow a second one."

"It's gonna be real uncomfortable."

"So maybe we don't sleep. Maybe… we could give something else a try."

Steve looked even less certain, but managed a grin as he joked, "Well, I've always wanted to learn how to juggle."

Becca jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow and let out a huff of amusement. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."

"Right." He sobered up. "Getting this place, I wasn't trying to push you. If you need more time –"

"Then I'll take more time. But I've missed you."

It had been too long since they'd been together. Becca had no problem taking care of herself, but she had very rarely been in the mood and when she had, she would close her eyes and her hands dragging across her breasts and in between her thighs would become his hands and she felt too sad to do anything except curl up in a ball. But with him back, those touches would no longer be a memory.

She took her tablet from him and set it aside with her purse. Then, she took his hand, the one that had nearly smothered her. Steve was standing very still, barely moving, barely breathing. Becca lifted that hand to her lips and pressed it there. Her ribs seemed to squeeze together like a protective door slamming shut as her brain jangled alarm bells. Steve's hand twitched, like he wanted to jerk it back, but she didn't shift her grip and he relaxed. Gradually, she did too, the alarm bells fading to a dying foghorn that slipped into silence. She kissed his fingers which had spread to allow her breath to pass through and kissed his palm, and let his hand slid over her cheek. Steve looked like he might start crying, and she couldn't have that because then she'd start.

Rocking up on her toes, Becca kissed him, slowly, deeply. She curled her fingers into his shirt, sweeping her other arm around the back of his neck to pull him closer. Steve brushed her cheek lightly with his thumb as his other hand touched her back.

They kissed to make up for every day they'd been apart over the months, and then over the years. They tugged each other close, making up all that distance. Their hands traced the lines and curves they'd forgotten, so they could never forget again.

Becca took a step forward and another until, with a soft thud, Steve's back hit the wall. She broke their kiss, panting for air. Steve looked down at her, his eyes electric blue around pupils blown wide with arousal. Her lipstick had smeared on his lips and she wanted nothing more than to leave red patches all over him so that he would look in the mirror and know he was hers, just as she was his.

"Welcome home, Steve," she murmured.

Steve brushed her lips with his. "Welcome home, Becca."

And they were.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Wow. It's hard to believe when I first started outlining this series, I had an idea for a character with a drug addiction and no clue which Avengers character I wanted to pair her with. And here we are at the end - or middle, depending on whether you're reading this in publication or story order. Thanks so much to my beta anselm0 for her endless advice. Special thanks to all of my readers throughout the series for accompanying Steve and Becca on this journey. It's been a great ride.**


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